Stop pointing, stop laughing

She is waiting for me.
Covered with paint on the walls.
Red paint to be exact
Driving with the windows down
Is so exhausting in this heat. To a home
With no air conditioning and a girlfriend
Who emits heat from her skeletal body frame.
Pulling into my dirt driveway
I stopped counting the empty bottles
Lining up my entrance.
Drunks, skanks and losers we all are.
How many woman have seen the insides
Of these walls?
Gagging for it.
Asking ridiculous questions in all of
The gettings to know us.
She is laying waiting for me.
With the blankets covering the light
And a little bit of music playing
Pretending to be asleep when I arrive at
6 in the evening.
That curdled little voice filled with
Sleepy flem and wonder.
That long hair is messy in the pillow waiting for my
Fat face and loving hands.
What counts now is just a
Little more sex.
I feel famous.
The days anger bottled up into this moment.
Should I do it in anger or passion or both?
Let me dive in and find out.