El Cortez

An hour and a half into Utah,

photo by hungrybison

drugged up and running.

The neon sign, the lights of The El Cortez,

the Mexican whore who stole my money,

all burned into my memory.

All still too fucking close.

Along with the memory of

the gut shot man,

the son of a bitch

and his dainty mouthed cocksucking wife,

I left them in the parking lot,

sitting in their car, dead.

Dead, by my hand.

Blood washes blood.

All still too fucking close.

An hour and a half into Utah,

enveloped in darkness,

I feel the numbness taking hold.

I see the stars above,

they remind me of the lights from El Cortez.

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Filed under American West, creative writing, lonliness, micro stories, non fiction, Sex

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