Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

The Glow, Pink Pills, and Unused Condemns

I can be a good girl, but I'd rather bite deep into your lower lip like a mother bear in love with her cubs encountering a stranger in the middle of a gas station parking lot. The pitter patter of ruby pooling in a plastic cup;I will use your blood as a dipping sauce for my french fries. I will not share any of them with you because I had a slumber party with them last night. An all night fuck-a-thon. Now, I am covering the evidence. Chewing. Burning old love letters from high school in my parents' backyard garden during the terror twilight, I am creating a forest fire that will engulf all of Wilkes-Barre, and eventually the rest of Northeast Pennsylvania.

I have been inhaling fog late at night to forget about all the terrible shit that is about to go down in the next couple of days under a crescent moon. The glow, pink pills, and unused condemns on a three-topping pizza. Are we having a party? Or just fucking around like two dogs flashing teeth and snarling? Matted fur flying into the air, I hope you get a good grip on my neck because you owe me one. 

The earth will rotate from right to left scattering my thoughts into the whirlpools of the Susquehanna. Sucked down into the Knox Mine disaster, which we have completely forgotten about. I hope the effort of fracking the layers of my head for natural gas have paid off in net profit because our water supply is poisoned.

I wish we could fuck on a bed of nails without any trepidation. I have dwelled on this daydream for a very long time now. But it's withering. Becoming nothing more than a passing thought. I am unsure of my political affiliation, so I have stop paying attention to what's going on in the world. You can call it a hunger strike if you want.

And all my animosity and paranoia is condensing into a cloud floating through the sky: Indian Summer 2012. It will capsize and sink into the vacuum of space because I'm solidifying my place in history as the loneliest person involved in this city-wide project,which is failing. Because you're disinterested in studying the capillaries in my eyes. So broken and raw, you bury your face into the darkness in my shoulder. Yawning. Sucking it all in. Sucking it all in. I am brainstorming a list of animals that might exist, and I'm sorry, but a plesiosaur isn't one of them.

Try to perform fellatio on the erect barrel of a .22 rifle. Or eat out the remaining nuclear weapons in the world. Because I'm sick of the friend zone, and you need more practice, which is why I am joining a dating site for asian women who are christians. I am neither asian, nor christian, nor a woman. I am a caucasian male buddhist in a sweat stained wife beater bucking the trend on a wide variety of chemicals, which I googled online. 

You're in love with someone else; torturing the both of us in the process of revelation. Wrist tangled in shackles at four in the morning, all you want is the solitude of modern technology falling apart in your finger tips. All I want is a body infected with infatuation, and maybe leeches.

Greasing the paw of something that is seven times smaller (It has a tiny brain)

Jim slides four 10 milligram tablets of Percocet into the left pocket of his khakis while his grandmother’s dog, a tan toy poodle, sits next to him on the carpet.

The poodle stares at Jim. Two inquisitive black eyes under a poof of fur make her aware of the outside world. And that makes her a witness.

The poodle racks her tiny brain: To bark or not to bark? That is the question. And she has the leverage.

Jim picks the dog up under her front paws and contemplates killing her. He can get her with one hand clasping her neck. A quick jerk and it would all be over. Afterwards, he can run to the pet store and buy a poodle that looks exactly the same. The old switch-a-roo. He’s seen it work a variety of times in his favorite tv sitcoms. But then he remembers that eventually the owners always decrypt the truth. Either the pet is a complete fuck up that shits everywhere and obliterates every expensive object in said person’s house/apartment. Or the perpetrator confesses to the crime. Shit hits the fan either way.

But there’s another option, which is the one he always chooses because this has happened a number of times  before.

Jim puts the dog in the middle of his lap. She carefully lowers her slender frame into the largest crease in his pants. Jim’s fingertips delicately massage the small gaps between the ribs before they steal a couple of the meat treats from the jar on the counter and offer it to her as a sign of peace. The poodle devours the meaty morsels. She shows her loyalty to silence by licking his fingers. Then the poodle jumps down and trots away confidently with her head held high because she got her cut of the pie and ate it. The grease is still stuck between her paws.

Used. Jim feels like a smear of shit on a wad of toilet paper waiting to be flushed. His friends and his family members will probably talk about all the potential being wasted as they repeat the word, “disappointment” over and over.

“Under the control of something seven times smaller than him. What a disappointment.”

Jim inhales two of the percs, so he can tolerate himself, and wipes the counter clean with his hand making sure that nothing is out of the ordinary. His grandmother will be back in a few minutes to talk with him about her childhood after she’s finished folding the laundry.