And there’s those times when all you really want to say is,

Baby, you’re nothing at all.

Because, really, these days I’m a ball of uncolor, a smack of black and white sucked free of life by cuddles and cuts to my dick from your toothy grin. I’m stumbling on the dancefloor because you kneecapped my spirit; and fuck it, man, I miss spiraling in (out) into a cavalcade of fist pumps. I move like the poltergeist of a drunken Michael Jackson shot up my ass and took residence–basically, I got spirit. But you, you’re just the sound of a megachurch pastor in my ear as I try to cum. Slut shaming. Spirit shaming. I’ve had enough.

Feel me crawl into a ball, Sonic the Hedgehog style–I’m gonna spin my slutty sticks I call legs right on outta here. When I shoot past you, past my ear, past your frown, it’ll be an explosion of colour for the first time. I’ll take up arms, into the arms of whatever man, woman I meet in the club at first sight. I’ll throw myself into an energy, make them a living bomb of sensuality too. We’ll grind, not grimace, our way through the feeling of tracks like this BenZel song, and nick the night of any seriousness.

Just a thought, just a way to make reality show you that,

Baby, you’re nothing at all.

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