I come home to discover that the crazy bitch has had her mouth sewn shut along with several tattoos and piercings at the mall. What’s next, your slit too? I can’t get it in, and I’m left to jack-off to tear stained family portraits.
She cries by the window as the booze seeps into my brain and my liver pounds and wails in the background, the small of my back feeling like I’ve been slammed in the family jewel’s by a ten-ton ball-peen hammer. Every shot of tequila adding to the fervor that a highway to a new angered oblivion is out of reach. Oblivion is gone, and a dry, sober, hung-over new day full of the shakes and the quivering anticipation of that first thirsty shot of lust is all that’s left.
The shovel is in your hand. But you’re not digging, so you must be burying.
|
|
