Let Me Motherfucking Love You

You can make a decision to love someone. I’m not saying I did this, but old exercise books have eligible men’s names drawn inside of hearts and popularity drove it, made it happen. It wasn’t a fateful, no choice in the pick, but an attractiveness scale and girl group to impress. They thought they were The Spice Girls. A tribute act doesn’t have to even look like the original, going by the ones I’ve seen, but maybe that’s England all over.

You were a decision in word only so I made a moat and rewrote cards I’d already written so you’d think my words weren’t meaningful.

What I know I suppress, and it’s only in the dreams I reveal my bent bra hooks to you and the hanging threads from my one pound Primark pants. And I want a worse judgement, to put-off, but yours is a fascinated face and when I wake up, I sense the wait in the seconds the clambering would’ve taken and I want to dream-learn, to dip into the memories of the dreams I did have. Instead, I end up in the ones I’m already dead, getting ready to die again, pursued, consistently, by the mighty and wrong.

What A Wicked Thing To Say — You Never Felt This Way

When we kiss, there are people watching, but we don’t get a kick of it the way women do in Crash, and men. We’re not the sort to give snatches of our webcam selves. We wouldn’t sell a photograph for money if it could later incriminate us; you don’t need much evidence to destroy teaching careers, marriages, pop stars’ lives.

And these people, watching, are those that could take empires down, having lain in wait for at least eight months, or maybe just four. They’ve cried themselves sleeping, wondering if they’ll get their lottery shot, cash advance, salaried job, finally.

But not everyone gets what they wait for, pay for, pray or wish for. Not everyone gets their fucking wish.