There’s a knot in my stomach and a fist in my throat. My lips can move, so does my tongue. But I can’t make a single sound. Yet I got things to tell you, so I guess I’m just gonna write my words down, not like you will care to read and not like I’d give a damn rat’s ass whether you do or not. I just need to get things out my chest, but this fist has blocked all the way from my mouth down to my throat. I’m afraid it is going to get deeper. Maybe it’s aiming to destroy my lungs, so that I can’t breathe and die. Or maybe it’s aiming deeper; to go down to stomach and hell, who knows, maybe it is going to untie the knot and set me free so I can talk these all to your face. But no.It doesn’t seem to go anywhere. It’s like my throat is it’s new home. I hope it won’t throw a housewarming party, and invite my other fist down to my throat.

“You’ve got lips like sail boats” you’d say. I’ve never known if that was good or bad. But I only hoped and thought it was good each time I felt yours on mine. You’d kiss them till they bleed. And I’ve always wondered if it was the chapstick or the lust that made you lick my lips like a 5 year old fat kid would lick the last drop of ice cream of off the spoon.

I’m a little off the wall. They say I can see just fine, but sometimes I think I could bare to see a little less of the world. My lips are like my heart; they’re too heavy to work right and they hold all the wrong things in. My theory: one day they’ll both explode. I’m the pieces of a ninety-nine cent puzzle; I don’t quite fit together like a person should. Well, that is until you get a hammer and fix me.

In my throat, I find another consciousness; things that I didn’t mean to say. Maybe that’s why it’s blocked today… Maybe my thoughts are grounded and they are not allowed to get out of this whore mouth and must be stuck in their room, in my mind, made of bloody brain cells. So now it’s a must to write all these thoughts that don’t make sense when put in together, but they make perfect sense when I think of them individually. It’s not like I’m a poet. I would hate to be one. I want to punch everyone who calls me a poet right in the nose so they would bleed and I would enjoy the scene.

Anyway.

Now call the paramedics and tell them to pump my stomach, for old times’ sake.