stories about the cuts on your thighs

The floor vibrates from the heavy bass-speaker. We’re drunk and silly. There’s only two cigarettes left in my Marlboro soft-pack. I might want the last one for myself, at the terrace while staring out into the night. It doesn’t have to end like that. If we let bodies play, smiles connect. No words. Then the night will be ours to remember. Leave your horrible choice of education, my thrown-away talent, the violent past, broken promises, stories about the cuts on your thighs… read more >