Whore's knickers

And so it continues this topsy-turvey journey of finishing up.
It got suffocating tonight.
Maybe it was the fullmoon outside that taunted me, but something was willing me to leave. It's too much this expectant mood, this need for you to be the pinnicle of entertainment and round-eyed foreignerness for one last time, that you'll buoy the party and throw a shovel-load of soil onto their barren lives. They don't know why you needed to escape the send-off party. It's all they want to do, to pack up and leave and there you are doing it, right before their straight-jacketed eyes. Where were the exclamations of delighted surprise at the delicacies served and exorbant interest in their pidgen english efforts you hear them wonder? In the laundry with a sweat-drenched t-shirt, reeking of "one last game"; caught up in the folded futon you've been so neglectful of; between the closed novel pages you don't have time to finger; written between the lines of the "to do" list.
And you wonder how you'll even get through this gluttanous feast on your energies, energies that are for the moment, seemingly unrenewable.
maybe it's a good thing, because at this rate your memories of the place will be tainted with tiring duties, so that you'll run to the plane, in a temporary release.
Be gone you gorging pariahs-I want a day, a day of my life for me, the person living it.
Up and down like a whore's pants.