Heavy Hands

by townmayor

There I was, stumbling around – drunk again.  Fucking devil.

My knees touch the floor. The couch is nice and soft and possibly velvet of the lightest color blue. I’m telling him to kill me. I’m looking him straight in the headlights, man:

“I want you to kill me”

“Don’t you want to kill me?”

How many ways can I say it?

Everybody knows what I’m talking about!

I’ve been biting my lips, again. I’ve just been waiting, again. 

It’s all so funny, it’s never been this fucking funny before. His teeth are one of the better parts, I like seeing them, his eyes close up a little when they come out. His fingers are so long, like I never noticed before.

I’m just sitting here, looking for pressure points, but really I just want to take his hands and place them in my mouth, really just want him to push his thumbs deep into my neck. I’m not kidding brother, I like it that way. 

There’s that sneaky smile, there’s that look from the corner of the room.

It makes me alone, again. I know for a fact that I am on the carpet and the lightest blue velvet spills onto the floor. 

It’s hard to say what it does: I’ll just be howling in my sleep, I don’t need nothing to believe in anymore. My hands are the heaviest, I feel them pressing down into whatever substance has sneaked around us. The air is thick, buddy. I’m telling you, it is hard to breathe.

Let it be our secret.  Let us have a little secret.

Now it’s hard not to look at him without the particulars.

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