SHE

is "a" smart one, but not "the" smart one to whom I always refer. She analogizes me to many things, even when i ask her not to. She's a demon in the showroom and on the dance floor. I beg of her not to show her shit. But she a smart one, i'm telling you.
She tells me what i do all wrong, why i do it, and when I'm gonna die....Truth is, I never confirm to her that she has it all right. If fact, I try and undermine the authority she feels in herself. I do such things as an after effect. When I look back on it all, i begin to wonder if i have any effect on her self esteem. I couldn't imagine that i come off that bad. Though, i can't imagine very much, unless it has already happened. She calls me uncreative, and I agree.
Part one: transience
Part two: bed rest
She's a magnificent companion, she loves all to herself. There was a moment in the night when i heard her confess a mystical complaint. She remembered how nobody steals anymore. "They're too old, and boring." She was dead with a bullet. She was a cleat with the knee. Fuck, she was saying the same bullshit from three years ago, and still meaning it. Shit.

I'd pull the blankets off of the bed, and shave the shears of thier follicles. I'd knight the peices should they filter through. I'd climb like a saru through the open brush and bring the shrouds to their motherfucking banana knees. Fuck that shit, yo.

I loved her though, like a sister, like a "I'll kill you in the hills this time", motherfucking bankrobber, biznatch. Party like a Y2K sista snapping bitch, yo.