…you don’t know me very well

…you don’t know me very well, like you think you do. The scars don’t show unless I want them to. “You’d be surprised what people hide in plain sight,” as they hibernate. I am no little jack horner. The world, stuffed between my fingers, rolls like a marble, and I watch the hyprocicy of narcisstic fools as they ejaculate on their sweet by and by, all dressed up in their johnny coats and their pious platitudes. But me? I’m something else. Something…hungrier. And this? This is how it starts.”Mama, she’s crazy, crazy over me,” giving me head in the passenger seat of my rusted out Firebird, lips like torn rose petals, sticky-sweet with the remnants of stolen liquor and adolescent desire. Her name doesn’t matter, none of them ever do. They blur together now, these girls with their hopeful eyes and trembling hands, each thinking they’ll be the one to fix me. Stupid. Sweet. Already rotting before I even touch them. Their pupils swallowing my dew when the devil in me, lights their fires, but you don’t know me very well, like you think you do.