Closeface

Girl, you got something terrible between those legs. Enchanting and infuriating, like playing Jenga drunk. I’m talking of course about your vagina. The bizarre folds of skin that gives way to a cavern of inarticulate wonder. A weapon of mass distraction, your sharpest sword, your Atomic Bomb. Utter destruction disguised as a roast beef sandwich, or the sagging, wrinkled skin in between the fingers of an elderly man whose swung to many hammers. And what’s worse than the way it looks are the thing’s I’ve done to for it. Traveled state lines as well as phantom lines that separate tolerance and criminal devotion. I’ve emptied my pockets buying clothes to make myself hip only to end up looking like an inept, chicken legged jackass. I should of just bought a bear trap, or a giant pussy magnet, or maybe a net gun. My dealings with your vagina have reduced me to mist. You’ve turned this yellow boy into a paper thin boner, who’s prime directive has de-evolved to bartering Claire’s gift cards in exchange for sex. But I do look fondly on those nights rich with alcohol, where we would talk about shooting stars and sand castles. And my darting, hazy eyes would journey up your legs, past your knee to that pink void, where I left my heart.