A Little Help From My Friends
did you forget that yellow bird?
I want to spin in circles, my dress twirling around me like a flower with petals made of the red fabric. Not classy enough to be a rose. Some sort of trashy flower that's too naive to really understand what her naked stems are doing to all the bumblebees looking for somewhere to stick it.
When I leave this all behind, the bumblebees will forget I was ever here. Pollen strewn across bedsheets like the whore's broken string of fake pearls. When your Tramp Red lipstick doesn't wash off it's a pretty good sign he was lying when he said they were a family heirloom. He fucked your roommate; like he'd give you real jewelry.
I just want to spin in circles in my dress. I'd like to float above the pool, with the lights shining on my naked legs. I want to lift my arms above my head to some invisible music, reaching outward for the energy I can feel flowing through air, connecting me to the people standing around the pool. Can't you feel our synapses firing at the same time, little interconnected fireworks of the brain?
I want you to feel this, this beauty of the truth that comes with understand just how small and insignficant and beautiful we are. That something so small in the grand scheme of things could be so intricate and capable of so much is breath-taking, isn't it? When I feel the wind on my cheeks, I feel the electrons passing through both our bodies. We're all under the same sky after all, right?
I want to fall down into the pool, feel your hands on my skin through the wet fabric of the dress, flowing in the water. It'll cling as soon as I come up, and my hair will stick to my face. You'll slam me against the wall and then the bed and I think the ocean will rise up inside of me if I manage to come, but even if I don't. I take the universe inside of me when I take your cock. Nothing makes more sense than the most primal need.
Once upon a time things were simple. Now nothing is anymore.
When I leave this all behind, the bumblebees will forget I was ever here. Pollen strewn across bedsheets like the whore's broken string of fake pearls. When your Tramp Red lipstick doesn't wash off it's a pretty good sign he was lying when he said they were a family heirloom. He fucked your roommate; like he'd give you real jewelry.
I just want to spin in circles in my dress. I'd like to float above the pool, with the lights shining on my naked legs. I want to lift my arms above my head to some invisible music, reaching outward for the energy I can feel flowing through air, connecting me to the people standing around the pool. Can't you feel our synapses firing at the same time, little interconnected fireworks of the brain?
I want you to feel this, this beauty of the truth that comes with understand just how small and insignficant and beautiful we are. That something so small in the grand scheme of things could be so intricate and capable of so much is breath-taking, isn't it? When I feel the wind on my cheeks, I feel the electrons passing through both our bodies. We're all under the same sky after all, right?
I want to fall down into the pool, feel your hands on my skin through the wet fabric of the dress, flowing in the water. It'll cling as soon as I come up, and my hair will stick to my face. You'll slam me against the wall and then the bed and I think the ocean will rise up inside of me if I manage to come, but even if I don't. I take the universe inside of me when I take your cock. Nothing makes more sense than the most primal need.
Once upon a time things were simple. Now nothing is anymore.