then me

i’m running, tripping. running. no one feels how he felt

i'm tripping out of love. i'm on my knees, like the kid from nazareth before the cross. i'm liking vanilla on the teeth

new chapter. reckless fucking. writing bad thesis. caffeine. rest

i think the babylonian necromancy backfired and is killing me. i think i need to not write of him. i think i need to cover up the tattoos. i think i need to kiss new guys and call out their names in the night

i buy lingerie. i’m on my knees in the confessional. i get his voice notes in the night. the lingerie’s black. the rite calls for garlic, cutspo nudes. "that’s vampy," he tells me. "we can’t get too vampy." i cry, flush, get vampy regardless

backlit love, thirsty / country. on lone lines he yokes / his neck to my neck. that's the verse. he's nice to me. i giggle for him. his neck is yoked to my neck, like cows in lonely countries, in biblical thirst. he's this voice note, lone line, i receive kneeling in church. he's this risky glimmer of my thighs, my black undergarments, thrown into the rite for babylonian necromancy. he's the rip in my lingerie's thigh

he comes on my name / unripe, his laugh a glimmer, / it's gooey, not new. that's the verse. he returns to me in the night. he tells me he's contrite, that he can't recall the bad things, that he can recall them and he's contrite, contrite, contrite. he kept telling me he loves me: that he's fucked, that he's a jerk. he tells me of the komodo, little creeping crawling thing. he tells me i'm good, too good. i forgive him, i tell him. i love you too, i tell him. he calls me my full name. no one calls me my full name. his voice is lighter than i recall. in the night i kiss him, tongue in cheek, on teeth. it's not a bad kiss. his laugh is like this revolutionist's giggle, betraying itself, betraying himself. the bones tell me to go on, then. go on, then, they tell me. one, one, three, three, four, they lay themselves open. they tell me to go, on, then. nothing is legible these nights. it's chilly, like a temperature breaking. it's clingy, flesh on flesh. there's never verse here. i fuck other men and call them his name quietly on their necks. i come for him. that's vulgar, too vulgar. i'm reckless in this. he visits me in the night and i lose myself, i lose it, like the gods of the flood

he called me

toast, oil, cacao, leek. / in the verges of him it’s / gross, lime. "i could burst." that’s the verse. i tell him "i could burst," because of the thrill. because of the lure, the vision, grave, graveness. i’m necromantic for him. the grocery list feels like a biblical grief rite. toast, oil, cacao, leek. one lock of the lover’s hair. gross cuttings of his lashes. keep in the cheek for the night. that or the rite that goes like, one ramen in cellophane. one vial of blood. one fork. that’s the other grief rite. i could burst, i tell him. i could burst too, he replies

i like him gross. i like his flesh clinging to mine. i like turn-offs. i like being told they’re not turn-offs. “no, you’re into that.” i like not being into it. i like his ugly

gushing glob, unlit / room. crying blushed cheeks. he / turns from me, turny. that's the verse. the room, unlit. his thigh, on my thigh. he turns back, tugs from me. i'm crying, cheeks flushed like lilacs or lilies or, or, or. bellis. like bellis. "you're into that?" he questions, though tears glob my vision. my noise, in response, is nonclear. nonopaque. opaque, too, though. "that turns you on?" he's questioning. he's telling me. he's grinning too. his voice is raspy, cigarette lung raspy raspberry raspy

90s 香港 movie, but it’s vampire guro romance. music is northeast emo. neutral, gooey colors. girl with midnight poopie lenses falls in the thrall of her gege. he’s ruthless, biblical. levitical, visionary. the first time they touch feels, for the viewer, like voyeuring noncon

only night crossed things, / only this lace on my thigh. / he's lime rind in cheek. that's the verse. he's the lime rind in my cheek, tucked next to my vampy teeth. he's tugging lace on my thigh, then cutting it off of me. he's in this iris, unlit room in the night. in the vase there's lavender, lilies, bellis, rockrose. in the vase there's me, gulping in the green. in latin, unlooked for, that's virescere. there's no verse now. he's the voicenote, contrite, telling me never, never, never. he's the voicenote, not contrite, telling me yes, yes. then yes. he's on cherokee, on the green line, in chinatown. he's in the referents recycled like this. there's no verse left

"what’re you wearing," he’ll flirt. i’ll tell him things he’ll like to know. "what color is your hair," he’ll wonder. "black," i reply. "black," he’ll repeat. he likes me in black. "i like you in black," he’ll tell me. his voice’ll feel rough over the line. it’ll not feel close to me. "touch your thigh," he’ll tell me