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he doesn't like to cuddle. he likes to grip my hips and pull the fibers of pink tissue in shreds from my lip with his teeth. he throws his hands in the air like a messiah and leans his head out the open window. easy. breathe. codeine. breeze. we laugh loudly and kiss loudly and moan loudly. he mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. i run my hand along the seam off his tight black jeans beneath the table top. he rolls his eyes and smirks at me. we take every opportunity to touch, to feel, so secretly. so public. exhibitionist pleasure. we play like children, tousling my hair and I climb on his back. we roll spliff after spliff and talk rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. he says "us" like it means "amen" and his eyes burn wild with a fire of passion. we get drunk. off of wine and skin and things we love. his smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbones. his eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight. a glint of silver is growing up the side of his hairline. he thinks it makes him look distinguished. i laugh and agree. he loves to be so much older than me. he thinks it makes him wise. we spend a lot of time in hotel rooms with the doors shut. (we spend a lot of time outside of hotel rooms with our mouths shut.) he thinks the xanax makes the sex last longer and i don't argue. i always wake up first. i sit at the desk and work quietly and glance at him in the sheets. vulnerable and quiet. soft face. soft sounds. a warm cup of coffee and marmalade light through the windows. we bond over love for our brothers. we fight over where the chord change should go. we tease, oh we tease. he likes clean socks and messy hair and he runs his fingers down my overall straps with a tigers grin. he writes his name in the fog on the mirror from where he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pressed my face against the glass. he loves soul music. we sing confidently and triumphantly. i tap my fingers like spiders legs across his bare chest and undo his buttons one by one. i toss my head back and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won't be fair. he speaks like a pastor and trips over his words, his tongue struggles to meet his brain. that's how a prodigy thinks. (or it's the drugs). he knows when my words are about him and he lets it all go to his head and i don't care because i love to watch him love himself. we laugh and fuck and play and write and plot and say goodbye and never worry. he is my occasional constant. a parody of himself. a paradox of ever present and transparent. i don't care what he is. i just care that he is.

I’ve been on my knees since I was 5.

In the chapel,

in a bedroom,

in an alley late at night.

Always facing an inflated

godlike

version of some guy.

But as a girl you do what you need to survive.

You open wider, take the body.

Thank your father, you’ve been naughty.

2 Hail Marys, 20 lashings.

“I’ve been sent to punish you for daring to exist.

You will never know a love as meaningful as this.”

I’ve memorized

the lines

since I was 10.

From the Bible,

from the playbook,

from the magazines for men.

If you should mess it up, you’ll start again.

But, still, they only want

the women

they condemn.

I think that I’d have too much fun in hell.

With the pagans

and the hedonists

and sapphics there as well.

Purgatory seems the better fit

I can’t stand waiting in the corner,

but I do love being hit.

There’s not a torture you can prescribe

that I wouldn’t find

a way to like.

Every single second I’m alive

I’m sharpening an axe I’d like to grind.

“I was sent to punish you

for the way I was designed.

You will never know a love

that you fear more than mine.”

- “God Fear a Woman” 2023

How it feels tryna talk about my chemical romance in 2025

sara stockbridge kissing susie brick at vivienne westwood’s “portrait” collection show fall/winter 1990-91 | vivienne westwood hercules kiss heart bag 1993 grand hotel collection

Heart Orb Necklace, Vivienne Westwood.

Naomi Campbell for Chanel Couture Fall 1993

y2k pop rock princess

Givenchy by John Galliano Couture Fall, 1996

mood

Japanese Vivienne Westwood Lighter (2022)