Writing

Miss Waiting

It is because I can’t sing that I know there are no gods. Yeah, I can dance, but what good is that on long car trips?

Once, religion was sexy and happened naked around fires in the deep woods. Or is that just a fantasy we tell ourselves, like how much better things were before pollution and penicillin?

I just won’t fake it Jack.

What bites about getting older is learning that the fire inside that whispers “you’re special and are going to do something wild” burns in everybody else’s head too.

The bitch.

It’s my funky little war zone baby. And Waiting, — that whore with leather lips–she puts the bit between your teeth. I’m too young to shake it alone and too damn old to care.

Yeah, like I’m the only sad little bastard waiting in the rain for my mama to see me. Like I’m the only soul who burned with wanting and not having and dying.

Billy talks all night. Cold spit on his throat and the insides of his elbows and wrists and belly, says “everyone you don’t know fucks the same”.

And I’m still awake in the milky morning and that old whore Waiting, in stale make-up and dry underwear, scurries and hums. And wouldn’t you know it?

The bitch can sing.

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