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I think I'm addicted to naked pictures and sitting talkin' 'bout bitches that we almost had, I don't think I'm conscious of making monsters out of the women I sponsor til it all goes bad but shit, it's all good. We threw a party, yeah, we threw a party, bitches came over, yeah, we threw a party, I was just calling 'cause they were just leaving. Talk to me, please, don't have much to believe in, I need you right now, are you down to listen to me? Too many drinks have been given to me, I got some women that's living off me, paid for their flights and hotels, I'm ashamed. Bet that you know them, I won't say no names. After a while, girl, they all seem the same. I've had sex four times this week, I'll explain having a hard time adjusting to fame. Sprite in that mixture, I've been talking crazy, girl, I'm lucky that you picked up, lucky that you stayed on. I need someone to put this weight on. “Well, I'm sorry.” “Are you drunk right now?”

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This side of town, the sun goes down at the same time no matter what time of year it is. This side of town, the dark is always hungry, the dark is always sharp. The moon turns on its side and bears down like a toothy smile, like a feral Cheshire and you swear it’s supposed to wax and wane but all you’ve ever known is this sideways grin, and it’s never been friendly. You come home on a subway full of men with hands like carving knives; they’re all looking for a taste. Their thick fingers find your hips and ask if you’re willing to sell because, oh, they’re willing to buy. Like you are a commodity, like they could have you for the right price. They lick their lips like they know how you look beneath all those clothes. You do not flinch. You do not cry. The secret is, Midas was a woman and everything she touched turned to shit. But at least she’s honest. Men just like thinking they’ve got gold pouring from their fingertips. But you know better. And men never did you any favors. In fact, there was man standing at the corner of every worst thing you ever did. You dig your skeleton out of the mud on the banks of the river. You find it one bone at a time, like a jigsaw:
here is your femur, your kneecap, your ribs. Here are your punched out teeth but you can’t figure out where your head is. The moon colors the trees ghostly white; you can’t tell the muck from the blood, here. You can’t tell the truth from the lie. They call themselves sheep but in the light their sharp teeth glisten. You were the boy who cried wolf and you howled at the moon because at least the beasts would listen.

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