She suggests a new lipstick but she’s pretty fucking catty about it. Like I’ve never sipped tiger blood in a tree hut made out of peacock feathers and monkey skulls. Like I’ve never fucked a drunk country western singer while riding a killer whale during a monsoon. Like I haven’t made a cathedral out of my cunt and pissed rubies into the proverbial beggar mouths of the prophets and the priests and at least two or three mystics. Like there aren’t a thousand or more Texas roads made out of my skin. Like the world is not a marshmallow and my fingers and tongue keep stoic in the corner. Like I’m not a jukebox and the same six songs are picked by the same seven cowboys every sawdust sneeze night. Oh. Look. A new moon. Chuckling jack-o-lantern ghosting the sky. Like that shit isn’t sparkling with my invisible ink.

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