Sometimes, I have to rinse my mouth out because of that. I still have their taste on my tongue. Hers and his and yours.
I can't get rid of this and start scratching my tongue with the sharpest words I can find.
Piano Strings. Thorns. Glass. Edges. Fear. Grasp. Coldness. Heart ache. Claws. Saturn. Lemons. Tango Argentino. Summer Camp. Lips. Beer. Razors.
But now the taste is a composition of other peoples' souls and an aeruginous copper coin.
Like tea brewed with sewerage and withered moments. That and 300 grams full of blood.
I try to fight fire with petrol and end up in an uncomfortable faint. Deep inside this labyrinth [made of scratches and furrows]. It is the maze of my dreams. And my hands are filthy and viscid from what I found in their shadows and corners.
I'm lost. . . a g a i n.
Lock me up in my core, where everything is possible except an escape.