Fuck you, bitch.
Don't fucking talk over me.
Don't fucking come at me-- I'm fucking trying to fuckin' help you.
Shut up or I'm fucking hanging up on you.

Again?

Fuck you, bitch.
Click.

My fucking face in a toilet bowl, my insides now outside, all I taste is acid. There isn't enough inside of me, so my throat scrapes for acid. More acid. More acid.

As my guts spill out between my cracked lips, I wonder why the fuck there isn't yet the invention and a seperation: the throw-up bowl and THEN the piss bowl. When your face is hovering too-close to where ass cheeks lay on a daily basis, this thought runs over and over in your mind. And you throw up at the thought that you are throwing up where shit once was.

You can scrub your toilet bowls all you want. That doesn't make you feel any fucking better.

That aside, it's how life has been for me lately. I call, we talk, we fight, he says 'fuck' so many times-- as if it will intimidate.

I whisper,  "Sweetheart, I  prefer bitch-face."

Not really. I can't get a word in edge-wise.

To be in this, to conquer and to succeed would mean I should no longer function as a human with body parts-- as a human mind. Human soul. 

If that is my destiny, suck my fuckin' cunt until orgasms are no longer possible, and take me with it. Swallow me whole and don't look back-- not that you would, but I love playing dress-up. I love to pretend.


Tonight, I'm masturbating to a different face, to a different voice. A different name.
Good night, and fuck you too.