Men, Misery, Ecstacy, Hands

Because first base doesn’t exist for me, I have to bypass convention and skip, with precisely planned procedure, straight to homerun. After the deed is done, the moment is satisfied, it can be nothing more than this I’d say, and resign all emotion. Be dead to life. Reject it because there’d be no future, not one envisioned by him anyway.

If he’d want it then I’d comply, but with such doubt and pessimism I’d sell him to anyone who’d he want, or want him, sell him with a bleeding piece of my heart and the bitter sweet reassurance that I was right. Engineering my own fucking misery.