It looks like it's going to rain

 Gregarious, I’m not honoring the suicide pact we made. You said you’d want to free fall cause of the meditative rush you feel before the concrete. I said, “Alright, that’s the way to go.” You drove your body into my like a psychopath, orgasmed like an animal, came in your palm and slapped me in the face with it, cause we were both thinking the same thing, what a waste, right? I fucked you with my special Keith Harring condom, and then fucked you, multiple times, raw. I took you in my mouth and now my tongue has been itching for days. You said, “I’ve got that dick that’ll fuck your life up.” Probably true, but I haven’t made it to the clinic to check. You went down on my while I argued with my dad over the phone. Afterwards saying, “I’m your daddy, fuck him.” You got me high on cocaine and gave me head lice, your stupid dread-locks. For every level we clicked on you were a psychopath, I mean, of course you must be. And you were running out of post-abuse lullabies and the void in my chest expanded astronomically. As I was leaving for good you spat on my windshield, and ripped the antenna off my car, screaming wild as I peeled out. Last I saw you, you were running after my Prius in downtown San Jose, and I had a huge smile on my face, because I’d finally hurt you.