patti smith wont give me a bbbj

I have a hard time with attention and focus so I try to spit everything out first and rearrange it after. It doesn't work in real life at all cause people will see the rough bits first before I figure out what I'm trying to say but--



my girlfriend wanted to be patti smith when she grew up but we're thirty now and she’s still dressing like Brody Dalle in 2006 so she's running out of time.

she won't suck my dick without a condom and refuses to cum unless i hit her bare ass with this tree branch she found when she was hitchhiking to Haida Gwaii.

We met online and spent the first day together wandering around under the overcast PNW island weather. She kept saying i needed to make more eye-contact after it got dark and then we made out in the mud next to a lagoon.



I remember telling the psych nurse in one of Montreal’s many asylums that I was drugged and raped when I was 16.

She said “so you know what it’s like.”



my friend was eight years old when his father tried to play catch with him for the first time. he wasn't paying attention i guess cause there's this scar on his back the size and shape of an axe blade that never faded.



Patti smith hated me, or at least only when she was exhaling. Still she liked having sex next to the ocean where the ravens could watch and steal our food because we were too drowsy to stop them.

When we hitchhiked she’d sit in the front seat and I’d listen to her making conversation with the driver about all the other times she hitchhiked and had to threaten the driver with a knife so they wouldn’t try to rape her.

sometimes I coughed wrong and it made her mad. I’m most afraid of living things that are small and fragile. if I didn't love her then maybe it would be less scary.

She said she was afraid of me and I didn’t understand why. I never got mad outside my head. I never raised my voice or hit her unless she begged me to. maybe i don’t understand fear.

it's hard to watch people beaten to death or have a glock17 with the serial numbers filed off poorly pressed against your chin and still be afraid of death or physical pain but--



i was eight years old when i got sent to the school psychologist for the first time. she put the game mastermind in front of me and waited five minutes before she asked me if I had been molested.

mastermind is weird cause there is something off about it immediately. i remember that much. the box says it's random, but the choices are narrow. 4 pins in a row, 6 colours. doesn't take a rainman to see it. you'll win in six moves max. it's boring.

"that sounds like dissociation" for some reason the phd candidate that kept calling herself a gold-star lesbian on Tinder came over after curfew and is reminding me she's a psychologist while looking for her left sock under the bed.

"Transferrence!" I had no fuckin idea what “transferrence” meant until I googled it. she looks like patti smith too but hotter and I can tell this is just a story to her. it's a story to me too but that's not a new thing.

She's bent over reaching for this sock and giving me one last look at her pussy and said “It sounds like an Oedipus complex” before disappearing back into the Internet.

but Which morpheme in the name Oedipus is greek for ‘i want to kill my father?’



the dive bar bathroom stall graffiti left above coke residue on the steel toilet paper holder was my first real male mentor.

‘Whatever you do, 

never say I love you’



Other than that my only guidance to navigate life was to “shut up.” On long rides in this rusted truck I’d try to talk to my father until he’d tell me I sounded like my mother and then i’d be silent and imagine my finger was a rifle and point it at people on the highway.

This one kid in the other lane looked my age. His window was fogged a bit so I knew his family’s car had heat. His parents looked tired and in love.



I remember he wiped the condensation from the inside of his window and smiled and we locked eyes just before I imagined the bullet from my finger pushing through the center of his forehead.