Wet paint

Wet paint. Tonight I’m in my room. Been up since 230 this morning. I’m on the 9th floor and I can hear the buses slugging along the streets. There is roaring in the air. My belly is full. Not with love. Not with hate or sadness. But I ate fried chicken and drank my tequila and beer in the dark. There are only a very few that know I’m here. Others are relieved that I am not with them. On their couch. In their bed. Or brushing my teeth in their sink. If only they could keep me from their thoughts. The music drifts out into the hall, confusing the ghosts. I’ll be up before the sun again. And my eyes will be dark and puffed. My arms soft and weak. My heart, my teeth or even my cock may fail, but never my soul.

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About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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