You read me a poem you’d written an hour before. 
A girl committed suicide because she couldn’t enjoy sex. 
She didn’t shoot up as much as you did (maybe it would’ve helped), and when she leapt from a balcony, the descent was quiet. You said she could’ve been a replica of me. 


Cats sneer disdainfully and lift their tails at 'their' home being invaded once again by that hideous human thing who never seems to appreciate their 'gift' of tortured bird, presented half-dying,  gulping in its last breath with broken wing askew.




press 17.03 26.06.12.