ChloroformBoy

i. a candle. perhaps vanilla - everyone is mostly okay with vanilla, it's no one's absolute favorite, but it's pretty much always okay. i would like to be pretty much always okay. being okay is a novel concept to me. i could write a book of all the times i have wished to be okay, but it would be a rather sad book and i'm not sure anyone would read it. i'm not even sure i would read it. so i'll stick to being a candle, the kind you put up on a a shelf and never light and that's okay. ii. a napkin. great for cleaning up your messes, then easily discarded, forgotten about. i would preferably be the kind with pretty patterns, but as long as i

i am still thirty years old without you i will never age again

hesitation comes with intoxication, dangerous fingers and knobby knees tucked close, a hibernation under triggers and tangents, canceled subscriptions and a failure to commit liquor talks with a lisp and stutters at the thought of your bare body beneath the bar lights, a trail of wineglass shards and a swimming pool of chardonnay sip and synapse, betrayal is never just fine, so tell me a story, honey wrap me up in your paper thin skin of beauty and perfection sprinkle your half-slurred words into my open ears until your chest feels as empty as this bottle teach me how you measure love against loneliness; show me the differences between