Content Warning: Please be advised that some of the material in this piece may be disturbing or traumatizing to some readers.
oh baby, will you
quit it? all the mood swings
and dead stares:
it’s turning me on.
whispering something vaguely erotic:
like a tragedy unraveling, or a
river in motion.
the endocrine routine—
sultry synchronized swimming,
drowning in my bloodstream.
god, you know i go crazy for being
so crazy.
so open me up, a swiss army knife, to
sharpen only the ones that cut,
making killers of my exons.
Venus as a Toy, or
arrhythmia disguised as passion,
lying on a bed of baby’s breath;
decaying under a mattress.
what use of such pornographic
pathology. resistance of any
persistent uptake, the novocaine numbing
of the sickening substance.
still, i want it all:
the sado-sexual
synaptic signaling,
the euphoric euthymia that comes
from elusivity.
lay me down so i can be
fully submitting to
a sterile medium,
naughty for my own faulty neurology.
you know just how to talk
to me dirty—with a low voice that
i confuse for my own, but carries
a different name.
how i ache for it,
the autoimmune aphrodisiac.
the suppression of my
endless starvation.
i need you in my mouth: to crush you and your pale
fragility between my teeth,
to swallow you whole, and all the paroxetine pleasure
that’s inside of you.
for desire is my clinical illness,
and illness is my only desire.
