sheets reek of self. tried washing them. again & again. the stench of my body remains. even when he sleeps over, days at a time. the sheets refuse to absorb any of his sweat, shampoo residue. when he falls asleep, i smoke a cigarette, sniff the edges of my mattress.

tonight: another party. every room full of the sort of darkness that stuns you into silence. the stillness of sitting on a carpeted surface, someone blahing about brian wilson. left early. drove home. the road lit, air before me thick. had to squint to see further than two feet, pull over repeatedly to just to breathe.

show up slurry. liver whip a few bitches then incest talk like baby its the best. gasp, gasp. some lesbian telling me im the best she's ever had not quiet yet. the boy in the sweater. the boy in the sweater. hashish. wine spilt on cashmere.

p.s. more on the "vodka spit" party later.

bored like insides lined with linoleum. like spit & watch the molecules split. carey says wine! but they dont have the right kind at the store so back to the apartment.

on the porch, the moon too close to bitch about a single thing,