dire me/2

–now insomnium, now null, now the gravid fishweight lashes lash and lashed. Briefly: I’m stalling sleep.

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I remember a walk, a summer night two years ago, counting months on my fingers, naming purgatory. Slowly, there were less fingers–and now there are no fingers. Maybe just a hangnail crescent. Leaving can’t be swallowed until there’s nothing left to swallow and the meal’s gone. I’m ready to go, but I’ve thought so often about leaving that I can no longer comprehend the act of it.

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These days, I survive mostly in my head. I’ve acquired a new paranoia: mind-readers. My brain is a scroll (skullscrollskullscroll) of compass rose, petals folded against one another, locked like fingers and eyelashes. Tweezers, sure, would be the only way to read a mind, and it would be slow going, so who would bother anyway? I’d rather read your lips which you bite and skin so the photos look nice in a pall of smoke; the worries you write in the crook of your elbow.

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The things I did to your wrists.

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Skullplay Seagull pt 2: What else next, but intercourse? It always follows. Thus: leather, charkohl round his eyes, black spider webs he drapes upon his clavicle. Amps loud. Crowd close, and no one sees no one. Taboo. Taboo. The mesh, the sink, the deep, the fit. Later: the bathrooms here are splintered. Waiting, a troll-memory and orange-rimed teeth; sable foxtail for comfort round his ankles; three heads and a shared eye–punch it out. Home. This obsession I have with clothes and showers. Then bed. Then can’tcan’tcan’t then can.

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Tangle.

Tangle.

Tangle.

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END

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