tory

when she comes it's like a symphony and her eyes, mad aglow, shut barely baby powder face drips sweat fingers sense madness on the foreskin

and he walks, stutter-step and it's always:

two days till tommorrow two days till tommorrow two days till tommorrow and (oh) fuck it all if it can't come to this so her mother was a schoool teacher, then sold real estate she played paino as a child that's how she got (got) so good...with her fingers and somehow it was all easier to remember with her eyes closed.

mahler turns off the radio to hear her and nothing comes together the way it was supposed to, just lady fingers and safe sex alibis "if i mean it i'll fall asleep" so she leans on her arms, tells stories but no one is listening.

they are all waiting for her eyes to glow one more time this is it, this is it, i know you'll listen, this way it's safe, so she leans back and knows she's locked away from "look at that ass", and "how'd you like a real man?" and all the boys are waiting, still in lockstep towards nothing, nowhere.

she doesn't play the piano so much now but she's still good with her hands and it means something if she says it with her eyes closed.

this way it's easier for her to forget and impossible for them to.

2003-02-21 | 4:02 p.m.
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