ETHICAL AND MORAL OBLIGATIONS.

I don't honestly know why I'm with this person, Warhola. It's kind of tricky, sometimes I find him attractive, sometimes I'm so repulsed by his kisses that I want to throw up. I don't know. I wrote a really long thing for him to read about it and his response was to kiss me. I felt gross.
The next day. After a night of incesteous conversations with him, I felt terrible, like I had killed part of him. He hurt. I could see it in his shining blue eyes. The way his hand slipped under his sweater, the way his pants were shoved into his untied combat boots. The timber of his voice, the forcefulness behind shooting it and putting it down. Suddenly I wanted to see him dosed by me, fucked up beyond any recogniction, my own special form of loveheroindeath turning him gray and hovering like a fog halo above his head. I wanted to see him slide in and out of my words and arms, smoke curling from his lips. Suddenly become his HEROIN HEROINE, my body addictiveand destructive, I wanted to devour him entirely. He kept talking, unaware of THE HUNGER sitting next to him, exhaling Turkish Royals. Walking under the soft almost there harvest moon, could he see that I wanted to lay on the traintracks and stick my love into the unscarred crook of his elbow? I calmed myself, everyone says to never swallow, to be swallowed. and then, the wave of violence took me. Bite to draw blood, fuck till the screams wake the roommate, feel his fingernails ripping the skin from my bones. My heart beat fast and my chest began to ache. He was still talking. It made me nervous.

I just need a good strong stiff drink.