Soon it will be February.
I'm reading your letter again
Complaining about my wet hands,
My tongue that doesn't move,
My nails that won't bury the rage
Of my fake orgasm into your skin.
I'm remembering your face,
Red from gin and vodka,
Diving into my depth,
Crawling like a biting ant,
Shoving every inch and fold,
Devouring all my tickles.
Soon it will be February.
Alone in the bathroom,
Holding your letter,
Repeating every word,
Thinking of crumpling it,
I'm out of toilet paper.
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