Sick, sick thirst


There it is.

That sick, sick thirst. 

In my bone dry throat, in my desert lungs. I lick my charcoal lips with this sandpaper tongue, and I taste cinders and sand.


There you are.

My sweet, sweet soul. 

You’re a sopping wet sponge, saturated and soft. I’m gonna sink my fingers in and squeeze. I’m gonna purse these lips and suck you dry. 

Until you’re a bone dry throat. Until you’re cinders and sand.

Passing along this sick, sick thirst. 


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