struggling to smell the difference
between the pefume she wears behind her ears
as you teethe at her quivering neck,
and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangers
but later call it sex;
where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawn
and just remember you'd forgot to call her.
her throat opens wide
as the moans bleed into traffic horns,
police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their children
spit glass across the mattress
filled with eight naked body bags,
and of course you two-
squirming as if you knew what you were doing,
with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-
she pretends she likes it rough
just because she thinks he does.
they rock back and forth like infants
trying to remember what it was like
to sit in their mothers arms and feel
what love really is-
without the crooked smiles that forgot
the difference between disgust and lust
just because it's always so painful
that the corners of her mouth have just learned to lift
with her skirt to make the tears look like his work
without showing the shadow of a doubt
-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawn
so it can decide wether or not it's time
to make an appearance.
if home is where the heart is
-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.
they lock eyes,
but only because neither has the key
to what the other is really looking for.
they stare so deep that the room blurs;
their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole
-they stare so deep into each other's eyes
that they just look right through to the other side,
and feel just as alone as they did
the day those dusty old vintage motel sheets
started to collide.
they've been fucking in the same rotten room
for so long
that their standards for the outside too
he'd of never known he climaxed
if he hadn't fallen out of her broken spirit
and into the pages of the bible
that wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.
it would have served no purpose
to the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spending
eachother when knowing all along they were
so they smoke the broken roach clips,
left in the ashtray
from the moment they noticed-
neither one of them even smoked.
they'll make it routine and call it adventure
as the habit forms and the love becomes indentured
-two slaves wondering which is the master
as they both eat the leather
and clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.
she used to call for jesus
and now she's call for me
-she used to call for jesus
but she never believed,
it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.
and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing today
while tomorrow giggles behind the curtains
and the night masturbates
in the room next to ours with his first date.
and i'll keep telling this story in third person,
and i'm sure she'll do the same
because we never loved, we lusted
but we never knew the way-
we never trusted ourselves to get there,
so we stopped at a motel along the way;
with each stop we take,
we get a little closer
to getting further away.