I hate the smell of sex. The scent of perfume fades by daylight as my body awakes to soiled sheets and traces of your body all over me. So here’s the aftermath-- a good kick in the head when no thought is ever thought through. Your my one night stand hour shower flower as I watch you wash down my drain. I can never srub hard enough when I can’t clean the filth from the inside out. So I’ll accidently misplace your number, just some good excuse when we bump heads again at a party. I’ll be the asshole you tell your friends about, and you’ll be my rebound throw around i can’t do anything right sort of guy. Breaking point, this is it, my hands smell like shit , mind wars inside my head, throw a fit, this is it. I hate that smell, it’s just like sin mixed with a bottle of gin putting me back in familiar situations again. EMO tragedy, it’s so me. Stand in line, everyone line up... passing out pieces of my heart because there’s no use putting such shattered pieces back together again. It’s the drink, i can’t think. I hate that fucking smell. Sweaty skin, tongues to mouths, and places that the sun don’t see sticking to everypart of me. Filth, dirt, and grime push hard into and forced out of the pores. LEave me in this sticky sheet to unfold in the morning wanting a shower more than to see your face again. I hate the idea of me after a regretful night. I hate my mistakes that are made too often. I hate the smell of meaningless sex.