There is THC releasing serotonin in my brain
as I sit here listening to Elliot Smith tonight.
Honey and Junk
rests beside me
read but not digested, those poems brought me here.
What’s the point of sex?
Just two souls forging comfort in a strangers ability to give
them a vanilla orgasm.
While we're created for biological dependence in the opposite of
ourselves,
the help of modern technology has declared self-fuck
buddies to give us sexual independence, but alas
always,
we ache a silent hurt for
another human
to bring us into our own self: that pleasure sewn into us
like a tiny orb of light
always floating within, only claimed in moments of
intentional, hard, defeat.
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