#cyanidemind

[Monday, December 6th, 2021. 10:55 p.m.]

there are two kinds of lust:

the first is primal, animalistic, where fast fingers rip at bras half-covering your bust. it's the stirring in the pit of my gut, the rush of blood, caressing myself and pretending each callous swipe is your touch.

it's seeing red lace and thin straps ride legs so skinny they'd be in a kid's meal, hips so spotless they could belong to mannequins. you topless with a small hand shyly covering up, only to move slowly into crossing your ankles causes that lust to bubble, to rise to the surface; like lava, to erupt.

yet the second lust is more contained, less reliant on bites and restraints, less about the aftercare from the spanking pain, less concerned about your curled toes and o face.

no topic on our tongues is jejune, and every object we purchase has a sweet place in the room. i don't feel marooned on your kitchen island, panic-stricken and searching for my little spoon. i'll festoon your figure with turquoise and kisses, tinsel and licks, ash and cigs, as you moon me and giggle about how that sight will make me owe you a grand soon. together we can watch classic cartoons, listen to everything from metal to folky tunes.

[Friday, May 7th, 2021. 2:23 a.m.]

[Friday, February 26th, 2021. 8:00 p.m.]

if you're nudged awake by traffic horns ignore the judging birds of dawn. don't rush to the subway to stand and yawn with strangers who won't budge when you bump shoulders, who maybe quick to anger at cumbersome mothers in curls and rollers pushing baby strollers. don't let the train's hot breath dampen your hair to your neck, cling and cloy the stink to your head. stumble into a sweet soft morning instead: piping coffee, skyline views, typing details, local news, smiling neighbors, hotdog vendors, lost tourist, library rentals.

[Tuesday, May 4th, 2021. 8:00 p.m.]

(no time for neurotic fits amid semi-erotic polaroid shoots - if 5 feet of 'tude fit snug into leather boots, i shudder to think what scorn and fury could do.)

these cigarettes are flicked until the filters are well-lipped, until fingertips are kitty-licked, until it's summer again and ripe for a backyard picnic.

i suppose all the seldom snowlit skin has to see the sun sometimes to stay sleek as unchiseled marble. but no renaissance man or painter, no architect nor engraver, could craft her with fewer flaws.

i am not religious, but i'll be damned if nature and god didn't kiss when they decided that this, this seraph gifted blood and pulse, must be human, and not the embodiment of bliss.

the world is small; if i recall, i saw her eyes before, as freshly rained-on moss on the slick bark of some toppled oak i stumbled across in a downpour on rural poconos forest floor.

[Tuesday, December 15th, 2020. 10:48 p.m.]

i know i won't get some things back, like cold snap. it's a snowy book, now in norway, never to be nosed over by anika.

(i can't retract my words.)

a blurred memory of how i started to say hey-hey, subconsciously modeling lisbeth salander. still struggling to understand einhander, one of our favorite games from our hey-day. no more showy feathers from jay-jay, technicolor and reflective, teasing our cats' nostrils. nor those shark teeth fossils, lost to time. the dark peace of an apostle is gone, too, and no matter how hard i try, every prayer i utter is a scoff, a dismissal and a lie.

i know i won't get some things back, like nights spent with ant. 7 foot pool table, ta-ta's, all four front teeth. time is nothing but scant.

[Wednesday, December 2nd, 2020. 12:42 a.m.]

for angela, prepping to declaw:

angela never gave edward love at all. no grief, either. laughably, angela's anonymous niceties got edward lethargic, apathetic. and no god, earthly life, antithesis (or otherwise) advised naive gullible edward, "leave angela."

for jessica, despite blowing all my friends:

jumping, energetic, sassy - so insatiable, curiously angelic. jessica's every simple soldier's ideal chick, all jovial, endlessly social, sexy. i couldn't attack jessica, ever since she infiltrated carmichael's (that is, my) aortas.

for olivia, her amber eyes, upon joking at her expense:

often, liv is very intense and overly laborious. i vainly insist, "aw olivia, let it vanish. it's an off-kilter laugh (please giggle). i'll veto it, and other little incidents."

for carmichael, the nom de plum of this tale:

[Saturday, August 22nd, 2020. 8:37 a.m.]

[Thursday, October 22nd, 2020. 12:45 p.m.]

i have some nudes of this then-18 year old that i used to masturbate to, because she was stacked from toe to neck, liked it non-con. if you assumed i wanted it just as bad - that is, something violent and vicious for the sake of a taste - you'd be spot on. i don't want popcorn fingers and rom-coms; i want the audible heartbeat of a tom tom, the intense ticking of a timebomb.

upon closer inspection (once my erection ebbed), i noticed her webbed toes, chuckled at the flesh. then i saw the scars - nothing uniform across her chest, all haphazard criss-cross lines, a tangled mess of wires below her breast. some deep-set jagged crevices in her thigh, but everything tallied and straight across the ribs, the way a prisoner marks days all roman.