Depression is a cruel thing
My life is odd.
I’m living at a cockroach Infested boarding house in the Spanish ghetto with an old lady, three old men, and a very nice transvestite.
When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.
The problem with depression is
-You know you’ll be ok, but you still feel awful.
-You know people love you, but it doesn’t feel like they do.
-You know doing something will make you feel better, but you just don’t know how to.
-You want to be well, but you just can’t seem to get there.
It’s been a while
A gas station employee asked me if my tattoo said cocksucker instead of courage tonight
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