Standing perched, as if requesting a formal witch trial, she stood,

And I wanted to help her, in sepia, under the government regiment, in proper fashion—set her on fire, expel the nonsense of a world wasted. Automobile hard-ons, and ash-laced promises, optimum dream-scapes,

Buzzing past her.

The octopus,

My darling, against the street lamp, waiting for anybody? You've got me.

She doesn't show anything, no feeling, no thigh. The furs draped around her neck in consciousness, nothing like pearls. A delicately-painted face, lined in light after light, fluid in the neon and pointing west.

Anywhere you'd like.

And it is something of a promise, maybe a punch-line. Place or orifice? I wanted to ask. And it's not like doing something bad at all. Nothing bad here.

Let's go to a place filled with decaying cartons, wild-staring, smelling of garbage, bugs ready to crawl right up you. But, that would be my job. Let's go a seedy little hotel, let my show you what I got. Talk to me about your father, about the childhood you never had. Tell me your favorite breakfast food. Show me your pockets filled with nothing but linen, absent are the dreams.

I want to show you the walls caressing paint, graphics and curses—and threats, mostly promises, I want to stand and think—let's act like we're at a fine gallery.

What else can this place be?

You seem more of the Lolita the closer I get. Round, little face and midnight roots showing. I give you my best impression of a smile/

But, you don't say a word.

0.0

I like it. The view of your thighs. The firmness in my mouth, the patter of pulses against my lips as I move up and down you. I'm hot down there, and I want you to touch me.

I do.

And your hands are warm, human, and there, simply. You're quite. And, no, I don't mind the taste in my mouth. It's warm.

Another spasm. I can see your smile just fine. And it's alright. Alright that you know me. Makes it all the better; don't think you'll kill me.

You never lost it, your hard-on. Your hands are playing with my waist, over my birthmark, and that's different. And I'm shaking.

And I want it to be good for you.

Ride, ride, ride, and my legs are cramping, my makeup running—and I'm suddenly hating the fact that I'll have to see you again.

You grunt, come inside me—you said you wouldn't. But, that's okay too, I'm on the pill. There is quite and the mildew is becoming apparent. Senses falling back. And this wasn't much different from the other times, and maybe that bothers me.

Your come is dripping down my leg, but I don't complain. Don't worry about the underwear I'll have to put back on. Your attractive, really. I never noticed before. I guess you never noticed me much either, or maybe you did. That's why you come to me, on a shitty night. Raining.

I like the veins traveling up your arms, the lines showing when you move. The collar bone smoothing into your shoulders. Pale and judgmental against the sheets, aren't you?

After a moment, I've decided. I'll ask you what the math homework was.

0.1

"Do you always stand there? Eighty Second." The sun is in his eyes, the light pears from the adjacent building and catches the black crown of his hair.

"Why?" I adjust the slipping purse from my shoulder, shifting weight from one leg to the other.

"Just..in case someone sees you, is all." He shrugs. "You'll get kick out."

He means from school. And it's not as though I particularly mind. In some way. I don't want to be doing what I'm doing forever. But.

But,

"Hey, do what you want," He says it, but I know he doesn't mean it. I guess it unfortunate that he knows I've got no one else.

With your dirty hair and your crooked teeth, stumbling in yellowed-thoughts—tripping side streets,

You look like the type that use to shine.

With smells flowing all around you, dirty, disgusting, guide-less fool,

You look like you used to be the type that could shine.

Too dirtied, too dumb, fighting hard to make it by—never will amount to anything,

Never wondered why.

But

at least, once upon time, we shined.

"I'm careful," I can say that, at least. I'm not sure what I expect him to say. Anybody with anything nice didn't get it from a part-time job around here. No body's getting by with a uniform, with a name tag.

I smell. Horrible, I'm aware.

He always dresses nice.

He shrugs, looks off to the side. "I don't want you fucking anyone else."

He walks off, somewhere in the murky entrance, his form black in autumn. And I don't think much of what he said.