A Collection of Spectacles


Girls that look bright like cherubs, prototypical, catch my eyes from the other side of the room. Overdrawn throughout antiquity, frail outlines like these change places constantly. Its owner differs from one moment to the next, yet someone is always waiting to exploit one when it presents itself. She has lovely wide eyes, a doll frozen, blood rushing beneath the surface. Pale skin masks the flowing liquid, so my vision only sees what’s been left behind. What a lovely shade of pink.

He touches me with too much care, as if I will burst underneath his weight. I’d make a glorious mess, breaking into many pieces, a water balloon filled with passion, flooding his room. Thank God for tiny New York apartments. The four walls would fill quickly with my fluids, a mix of bile and blood, vaginal secretions and snot, everything all at once forming a homogenous mess. To die underneath him. To asphyxiate him, filling his lungs with my own phlegm, reaching into the tissues and membranes, lovely.

Attempts at polyamory have made me insatiable and self-conscious.

“What do you mean you ‘like’ someone?”

What do I have to offer? Why can’t all of the affection be for me, always? Only one way. I’m such a dick. And a tease. I’m so awfully in love that I can’t have him treat me like shit. Be delicate, you know?

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