Does She Still Like The Same Things?

Does she still like the same things? I could tell you she does. Emphatically so.

She likes the same things even more than she used to, she likes them violently, she likes them meticulously as they were. Her liking for them, for the same things- it is absolute, toxic, and melodic.

It is the melody of the wishbone, of her perfect sleep. Of a sleep that wounds and wrestles with her wrists, writhes woefully with her wings, weakens her womanhood, willfully waits and whistles as it wreaks havoc, painful, in the switchblade cuts of weary winter wind.

It is the toxicity of losing. Of losing loss itself, entangled with bitter love, lovely love, licentious and latent love, they all reside in the liquid latex of her sloping limbs, to wait and to find, to leer and look, to caress and to alter, to brag and belittle, to abuse and to idolize, her blood shoots up starry-eyed, like a flame. The loss of her mind gave way to her hips.

It is the absoluteness of growing up. Of growing gloom, in the gallows of sought after affection, the greed of her tongue down with the grain of your neck. The glutton and the ghoul- the growth of the gap between the two brings them somehow, only closer. The giant and the angel Gabriel, in the green gardened ghost town, brought her to twenty on a high note. She grew drunk from the shade of the goat willow and graduated slovenly (some said sloppily) to the grudges of your outrageous and romantic, glum and gleaming, wildly lovely game!

"You seemed so very nice... but the sight of you is so cruel.

It makes me feel so blue.

I'm wilted and wonderful, won't you take me up in your arms?

Or...

Take me down on your holy mattress. I always go back to the rose garden.

There are three bruises on my inner knee from a stranger's fingers, between his thumb and his pinky I was relented for a while. We both appreciated the music that was playing. We had climbed up a very narrow set of stairs and it made me feel large in spite of myself (don't do it!) and the broken compliments of the night. Of course it goes to my head! Are you kidding?

Because when I don't like to be touched as I dance, I am touched by eyes that do little to make me feel naked. I feel sinister opacity, a wild nothing, I am a shadowless exposition. Darling darling, with your thumbs on my shoulders I am so nervous!"

She was dreaming in the wolf house, and she couldn't buy a single thrill!

Does she still like the same things? Oh I could tell you she does.