#viscerality

i think he broke me

i never knew i could feel like this

safe

content

held

warm

home

how can i be alone after this?

when ive found a new home in his chest

when he's hollowed me out and taken my ribs

can i take them back now?

im scared to trust you with my fragile bones

hollow inside

a swallow quivering under my heartbeats

lips to skin

teeth to flesh

an unusual softness to the pain

hold me as the world caves in and touch me as we hear the sounds of the outside closing in

i can't hear their screams through the cavity of your chest

a gruesome silence

remove my eyes and bind them

remove my lungs and breath them in

steal my oxygen so i can live inside you

until this garden of souls becomes overgrown

and the parasite is loved again

I am reading one of the diaries of supposed sexual liberation, which seem to be proliferating after Fifty Shades of Grey hit the market. For some reason sex descriptions are so un-visceral, as though actors never as much as ate, not to mention other corporeal functions. The materiality of said actors is purely conjectural.

Perhaps this is precisely because descriptions which put emphasis on a bodily aspect–liquids, body parts, actions–work in this surreal manner, that the scene becomes more and more abstract as more and more detail enter it.

Everything is boring, this is the rule of the universe, a curse from which there is no escape.