Thursday 11/15/2007 11:58:00 PM

With soap still under her nails she dug little holes. In smaller ones. The hours thick with fat. Tasty angels with their wings to suck on. The smell of sober making her nauseous. Knowing over doesn't wait for the right time.

It just happens.

Clean. Curious liars imagine the truth as it would suit them. Loose fit utopias name their charities after their victims. Trying them on with the price in the pocket. Without underwear. Or any reason to ask if over is near.

Love is suicide. Or life is and I get them confused.

A ripe watermelon waiting for someone to spit out its last seed.

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