We link fingers and make love. Or is it fucking? I think this constitutes as fucking. You take it in the mouth and only when I allow it do you swallow. To think of those futures you hold, and then with one lick of the lips, it’s just another dead end. Struggling to breathe you push me down onto the bed and proclaim that you’re going to make us some breakfast. I’d actually like you to rustle up something decent for a change, but you never cook the sausages long enough and you mess up the eggs by making them too runny, so I’m forced to do it myself. Getting dressed and following you downstairs soon after, this hangover just won’t shift. The bliss of release was only temporary, and it appears as if there’s no escape from the antics of the previous night. Making us both a cup tea and gagging on a cigarette, the light coming through the window hurts my eyes. Moving over to it and looking out onto the world, there’s a dusting of snow on the ground and the morning seems so picturesque. If we were clean and regular we could take a walk and be all romantic and shit, but we’re a million miles away. Making you some toast, you go ahead and nibble on it before rushing to the toilet and puking up. There’s my cum and beer and wine and chips and Sambuca and even pieces of gum I keep moaning at you to never swallow but which you do anyway. Kneeling down beside you and making sure to keep the hair from falling into your face, I attempt to sing you a lullaby but trip over the words, so I hum a tune instead. Sounds like Three Blind Mice. Or is it Blah Blah Black Sheep? But that’s racist now, isn’t it? When you’re done, you drink some tea and sit in the garden like a little pixie. There are squirrels and cats jumping at your feet, but you don’t see them. Going to the bathroom and turning on the shower, as soon as I get in my own sickly stuff comes right back up. There’s a whole collection of objects on show- even lumps of something that resembles carrots- and I haven’t eaten carrots in months.