Her body in various positions. Dreams of setting fire to all my yesterdays; visions of letting go and floating to a nearby galaxy as she searches for me in the dark. I wake every morning adamant that never again will I put pen to paper. It has to be done. No more struggle- I admit defeat. Give me a woman to fuck for the next fifty years and a job that pays enough so I can take holidays and forget about myself. This bullshit isn’t worth it- I demand nothing other than being submerged in culture. Knock me down. Cut me to pieces and blow out my brains. Let me chew her nipples and slip my fingers in. Let me take her so I can forget how fucking useless this all is. Hangovers and memories that never seem to shift. Dead-ends with every gaze. A lack of substance in absolutely everything. Scratching skin with broken glass, the taste of her mouth brings only disdain. To make her mine- to destroy beauty- it’s the only thing that keeps me going. But my threats are empty, they always are. Sucking cigarettes wishing for civil war. Knocking back glasses of cheap wine remembering how it felt to abuse her trying to justify my own ends. All that have followed have been in her image. She is the sun, and I am the moon. She is the ocean, and I am the night. There’s something I want to say, but the words never seem to fit the emotions that erode my senses. They dance out of my grasp, and so the war rages on.