What to do what to do when nothing will reach out for my blood sucking body. I am swarm full of bees, I am warm, I am empty, I am ready for you. Seep honey from my legs, make me breathe. There is no way to focus, the pages of the book, dry me up. The book is fucked, full of words that only clutter the body. My body is wordless, perfect for your projections, waiting to lay down the vast empty truth that I am nothing, nothing but this. This animal, this fear that trembles just over the hum of my desire, I am the veil that keeps you from seeing that I am everything.
Look at her go. She will not stop, until she has returned to her beginning. She will not stop, until the end has been trampled to nothing. She will return, her head in her hands, her head in her hands, her only prize. She is two of us. And three and four, because none of us can scare her away, because we love her, because we were there when we split from her, we are of her.
Let her go. One by one, you will see the others follow. You will be left alone. You will enjoy exactly what you are afraid of. Eat what you fear, chase what you fear, devour what you fear, and jump from it, into my mouth so I can swallow you, warm and whole, still beating, still alive, still burning with youth.
How captivated I am, by the theives, the black bodied winds, that tear through the night, through my heart. Black sound, black ghost, you scare me to nothing but beating heart, so that when you pull me close, you are my body. You hold my pulse, the rough beating in my chest is the only answer I can give. Hush, little heart you beat so hard, for so little.
You knocked the instant I fell asleep.
Today I got the package in the mail. I ripped it just enough so I could stick my nose in. I took in a deep breath and Mmmmm it was good, his smell. I opened it up all the way, and pulled out his dark blue dirty t-shirt. It was damp.
If I told you where the package came from it might give you more of an idea of the scent. I can’t tell you, or poof, you will know who I am. The cloth smells dark and sweet, like leather and damp like fog. It is spicy, like the sweat climbing through his sleeves. His scent crawling like ivy, to peek through, with sharp green spikes, the leaves of summer under his arms. Also in the package, was a bottle of blue oil. I am wearing it now. More about the oil another time.
Bread and butter. My legs, your legs. We are orange and blue. My past, your past. We are hungry, we don’t want to eat what we have. I want to eat you while you are sleeping. You want to eat me in the bath. I love you too, but stay away, so we can keep this space to play in.
The sandglass in my feet, the ugly walk home. The pain. I love the shape of your head, but not your hands, and that will have to be enough to make it okay that you don’t love me.
Amos Lynch 