the morning of

i'm hungover. my mouth feels numb from the moscato and shots i drank last night.
i'm sore.my arms feel bruised and my legs feel beat from running three miles in a stinky ass gym.
filled with creatine,
salty lips,
and men.
tons of men.

i don't know what to make of you,
i sat in a room wtih faces,
texting him,
yet thinking of you,
not in the same way as i use to though. or maybe.
you've been so distant. and i keep hiding in small corners.

your humor sucks.
real, real bad.
i desire your brown, olive skin pressed against mine.
i desire parts of you.
the company,
the hands,
the car,
the uncut dick and the ass i can't remember.
you suck,
i fucking suck.