Touch my penis.
And I will rub your vagina.
We’ll either enjoy it or we won’t.
That’s how the cookie often crumbles when your mouth is filled with milk and despair.
We were going nowhere fast so I put on the breaks just to see what would happen.
I’ll never forget watching as you went through the windshield and the sickly pangs of joy I felt as the delicate creature you once were became indelicate and indisposed.
When I got out of the car I couldn’t believe how sexy you still were and how the whole mangled and mashed thing worked for you.
Stroke my issues of low self-esteem.
And I will somehow reach your candy center before you become sour and muted.
You always had this off-kilter way of making me feel brand new when my thrift store body and second hand intellect had had enough and there was no point going on, especially when our love had taken a detour and I was tired of all those three ways you were becoming enmeshed in.
That’s how the femme fatale breaks when her eyes are bigger than her stomach and her legs will only bend so far back before they snap like insubordinate twigs or sugar free candy canes.
I used to believe we would make it through no matter the harsh conditions swirling around us like Frosty the Snowman with a crystal meth problem or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with a nose so bright that the PoPo knows exactly where to look when rounding up the usual suspects.
Some people cannot get enough cowbell while I’ve learned less is most definitely more, especially when it’s next to impossible training your significant other to play all of the parts in your next sketch comedy.
You cannot make someone do something just because you demand it of them unless you’re a dictator and what fun is there in that if you always know what the outcome will be and genocide becomes just another over played hand you’ll most likely get tired of once everyone has gone up in smoke.