Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

I am the words.
To a song I'm not sure I wrote.
And if I did, I'd like to know what I was on.

I'm returning to a disheveled home.
The kinda place that the neighbours might see you come out of once a week.
Where mice dance, and roaches smirk.
Piles upon piles of other people's things.
Other people's smells.
Other people's garbage mostly.
A place you'd expect someone to die
not live.

These are not my panties.
This is not my insult.
This is not my life. I insist.

And yet here we are. A strange woman seated on my throne
asking me what I would do if the condom had broke...
hands cupping a chin propping a brain
unsophisticated, unassuming
empty and absorbing too much of my oxygen.
Studious smile reading way too much into this.

Why is she still here?

Can't fulfilling this biological need be more like taking a piss?
Stand
deliver
sigh
relief
push the lever
watch it spin
comment on the beauty
comment on the inefficiency
comment on the stink
gone
you're done.
Tell your friends if it was a particularly remarkable trip.

This is all an unwelcome aside to my plan.