Lose Yourself

The toxicity is in the car as it drives, drives itself up the falling streets of Manila. The toxicity is the used napkin that levitates one second as it falls after wiping my mouth of cum. The toxicity is in the blinding eyes inside cardboard shacks, darkness the only color of happiness. The toxicity is the sweating ice pack on my rosy cheek, swollen from platonic pleasures. The toxicity is in the ragged doll man coming to the car, his one product a mixture of hallucinations and dreams. The toxicity is a pack of snow, freshly sealed, always expired, tucked between us. The toxicity is in boxes of long-necked alcohol, beer and vodka, gin and tequila, that burn my gut inside. The toxicity is in burning sticks, a robotic routine of holding breaths time to the rhythm of death. The toxicity is crouching at the corner, staring at how he cuts cellophane, how he bangs lighters, how he rubs his nipples. The toxicity is being tied-up, forced to take it in your mouth, smoking the deathly dreams aside. The toxicity is spilled booze, flammable and volatile in the fragile wood of the room. The toxicity is the deafening repetition of classical music to drone out moans of indecipherable pain. The toxicity is burnt marks on our arms, little round halos, centimeters inched from each other. The toxicity is hatred as he rolls his underwear down and you stare at the face of god. The toxicity is in veiled blinds, broken light bulbs, ripped bedsheets, covered faces. The toxicity is the recorded violations of masculinity upon the body. The toxicity is my arms holding him as he raged in covered joy. The toxicity is how I fucked him gently when he shouted for violence. The toxicity is the one inch that prevents me from kissing him, that one inch that hovers my face over his. The toxicity is the way he snores and you stare at the ceiling. The toxicity is in an empty wallet. The toxicity is him driving away. The toxicity is the clean-up. The toxicity is the shame. The toxicity is the asshole. The toxicity is knowing you want him.

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This is the 100 Songs Project, a 100-day writing challenge based on AFI’s 100 Years…100 Songs. Every day, I write a short poem, prose piece, or play based on, reacting to, rejecting, accepting, or doing something related to one of the songs in the top 100 list.

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