Tim Barrus Photography
i could smell his guts a mile away/ if he looks utterly privileged and has had everything handed to his martyred person, that is because he is privileged and has had everything handed to his martyred person/ in the winter he does not care but stirs when the morning cums inside his crimson wetness/ when he puts his baby tongue in my mouth, i can taste the medications/ that glint of sickle, he wants you to love him, but he loves himself for both of us/ i punish him, and he always comes out clean as if nothing sticks/