car ride

it's cold in here and i don't know how to treat myself. i don't know where to place my hands, where my feet go in the holds, where this carpet waltz takes us.

i have no reference.

it's cold in here and my mouth is full of needles. and every time i cough, i spit up a handful -- when i present you one, your only comment is disgust at the blood. not for the sake of it, but because you expect cleanliness. you expect more from me, and i'll try harder to drain myself next time, so the rusted metal leaves my throat in spotless conditions. so when it catches and drags, pokes through the side of my neck to pierce, the pain is the worst of it; the discomfort, worth every smiling gaze. worth the warmth of a job well done, worth 'good son.'

it's cold in here and i can see my breath. and i've come to realize, you never will.