Gas Station



The road was cold and dark and you said you didn't need gas.

But I asked you to buy me a biscuit sandwich.

The sun was about to rise, I think. It was so cold outside and I needed something warm and bright and soft to hold in my hands.


So I hold, hold, hold on to it, though

you never liked buying me that two-dollar sandwich,

you never liked the things I did, all the useless things, hamsters, donuts, my books, and cutting my finger up, Smirnoff, and chokers and the fishnet tights, all the cheap shit you despised,

all the bad fat that you feared will make me unappetizing one day.


So my sandwich kept me safe from loneliness for a little while,

made me forget about the overwhelming sun,

just for a minute,

made the night last forever, kept it cold so we could hold each other.


Filled with processed meat and preservatives,

it was just about the size of your heart.


And I hold it in my hands, a thousand years later, fresh as ever

like it was sired yesterday.

Daddy told me nothing lasts longer than honesty.

It was warm and small and soft, just like your love,

something I carried inside my pussy a little while ago,

for a blink of a night.