Spit, Spit

she’s as honest as the dip from my lip, spit spit

yes, the mountains of her clutter reach floor to ceiling which writhe with the stench and the remnants of her mother’s streamlined habits,
how could she ever think it was going to be fine while the contents spew bottom up without consent and reach the fresh paint of the park bench

here is your fucking check, here are your fucking pants, spit