Sometimes I miss staying up

trying to write. Stretching small feelings across big words like hanging an anorexic's bathrobe out to dry, nobody can tell. Maybe what really tells is that it was 

only 17 minutes spent together and you already know how loose I wrap dirty laundry around my tongue. Even my shoplifting history - which you will extrapolate into general kleptomania where people steal from people, and I will have allegedly procured your passport and STDs, because I had once said-

If the purse was a curse, you'd be coins for my loins.

I am thinking about how people hardly hear what you're saying but remember what they need to shove into undesirable orifices of verbal communication ( for I am not comfortable calling it conversation and no body should be). From big tits to small talk. And what ends up in

my purse is nothing but an imaginary passport. I wish it was at least mine but I guess I am going nowhere 

yet.