a small rotting berry

your body was embroidery floss slinking through my loosening stitches, parting the fibres of a persian carpet - a thick, undulating, lugubrious forest canopy. i liquefy and gather beneath. a secret ocean beneath your pallid mantle. our little table of bones is brittle and transparent and we sit at it to eat a pear. sweet flesh of flower. i bite and you pick up a pairing knife and i pick stems off your plate and bury them in fronds. i am a god in yardage

i convince myself that i am more in love with the smell of rotting fruit on the sand than the straight edges of your teeth. they bite on my jaw and i taste the pulp of our flesh. stiff tongued, with juice dripping from my chin, i swam in a soup of pijamas and chocolate milk for five minutes.

my mind is not going in circles but in those sinewy undulations of termite presence in dry desert bark. purposeful, arbitrary… they built an endless racetrack in a desolate valley. spectators hidden all around — i see beetle tracks in the sun-baked dirt. unknown blood on the rock. no scratch, but i know that you’re hurt.

why cant someone just tell me what the right choice is for me

nobody on the train knows i have avril lavigne’s first three albums on repeat full blast in my headphones but it’s okay i know something they don’t