We Only Hurt the Ones We Kill
Cupid slid her greasy limb inside me. The pressure filled me. The pinch and ache pressed against my walls all the way up into my torso and a sorrow crept into my skull, behind the plates of my cheekbones. Living blood like fleas skittering across my waxy meat.
I speak to my partner, glazed in an extraterrestrial sweat, pressed together in points. A long, deep echo invades me. Her soft palate ripples like a throaty bird. Her mucous is the sun, and her breath is the mucous. She is in chambers of photographs. She is in stalking of sepia. Her fluids flow and I erupt in pain. The skin of her hand makes rubber sheets to cover my mouth and nose. We are washed with bad habits and broken glass. We are washed with black, dry blood and dirty old clothes. I smell her in my sleep as I piss myself in desperate contortions. Her radio waves mount on my temples. Her fists blacken my thighs. She is chasing her way home in forgotten pavement, in the trunk of a dozen cars. She will find me wrecked, speechless and slobbering, half-buried in a ferocious tomb. She will look at my black eyes in the mirror and know that she survives inside me, and what could be better than that? Natural makeup symbols on your tombstones, commemorations, drinks at dawn, holding down a job, loving you forever.
Written by Brando
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