The sun is cut in half by the horizon and its blood flows out into the surrounding blue. Darkness ever so cautiously creeps forward as the sun drowns waiting to be resurrected by the morning. And in the distance, the sky weeps as two seagulls pay homage to the passing day.

There is thunder in the waves as they curl up and hammer the shore. White foam crawls up the sand with a hiss and then back to join mother. For one brief moment… silence. Then, another clap of thunder as silence chases the sun.

Mist is carried through the air as a gentle breeze sweeps across the shore. With darkness comes an overwhelming cool, relieving heat of its duty. High up above, in the vastness of space, the stars come out of hiding. Twinkling with excitement, these celestial children watch the busy world below.

And on the shore, they can see us. We are the perfect love story. Our bodies entangle as we create sand-angels beneath us. The music of my pounding heart beats into your ear sitting atop my chest; with each breath, your eyes get heavier and heavier. Your hair feels like silk as it caresses my bare skin, sending shivers of comfort down my spine. Sand cascades between my toes as your toes dance gingerly across my feet. The candy-sweet scent of fruit from your breath slithers up my nose as a revelation strikes me.

In this moment I realize Utopia is not some far off place of fantasy’s creation, or just some lost city like Atlantis. Rather, it is a rare mental state that is only found with the one you love.

I should be there now. But all good stories must have an end—so here is ours. I am like a cat now bored by playing with its prey. You see, I do not love you. It was all an illusion, a lie I’ve lived too long with—which is why I fed you those poison-laced strawberries. So here I give you one last kiss as your eyes finally close. And in the distance, the sky still weeps.

My body is water
but from dust was conceived.
I beg you to receive this filth that is me.
Like mud mold me until you behold me
as a shrine of your most unholy design.
Am I worthy?
Debauchedly ***** your flesh in this
wretched mess; on hands and knees
I mumble pleas to taste your breath
and drink your sweat. Violate me so
indiscreetly in every way obscene–
I’ll pray for God to intervene but
if he refuses we’re fated
for matrimony. This love we’ll
cement in a cemetery with vows
stolen from a eulogy. I’ll carry
a shovel like a bouquet and with
“I do” step into my grave.
But let it be known on my tombstone
that with open arms I welcomed
your charms. This is my future.
For what am I but an open wound
and you, my suture.

Not even empty pews want to make room
for boys like me;
but, oh, how mother’s heart would ache
to listen about the Almighty Son without her own.
Be it truth or lie,
we choose to believe what’s most palatable.
Sweet, innocent, ignorant woman that she is,
mother chews on the belief
that the light of God will change me.
So I play my role dutifully;
never do I turn my head from the pulpit.
It’s all about appearances, anyway.
But really, I’m enraptured
by the near-naked Messiah staring down at us all.

He dangles before me like a carrot.
Oh, that sweet, sinewy body of Christ—
those abs
that long, flowing hair
that battered expression, that restraint.
Something about a man in submission
really gets me off. Jesus,
I wouldn’t need a *******;
put the real thing in my mouth.
And oh my lord, those hands-
what ***** **** could we get into?
He was a carpenter; I’ve got wood.
This fisher of men—
he’d have no need for the other 12.
We could make that boat rock without them.
Come all ye faithful?
Indeed, I would.
Does he scream his own name
or Daddy’s?

Call me sacrilegious;
call me obscene;
call me what you want.
Are my sins any worse than your own?
At least I’m here, Bible in my lap.
Every Sunday, we all paint our halos gold,
put a few dollars in the basket—
that’s all anyone cares about these days,
forgetting Jesus dined with society’s dregs.
Aren’t we all just here for the body of Christ?
Some of us just have to hide
the erections it gives us.

Post copulation, most preying mantis males
will get cannibalized by their partner.
Even stranger still, I tell the class,
is that a male angler fish will fuse to the female
and then atrophy until he’s nothing left but ******.
The lesson could be that males
will often seek out *** at great cost to themselves.

And there in the front row:
I do not think this is a staring contest
but she refuses to break eye contact,
forces herself
into a dark closet behind my eye-*****,
sifts through the hamper where my most soiled secrets hide
as she tongue-****-swirls a cherry Tootsie Roll pop.

Her pleated skirt is a trap,
those legs baiting me ever closer.
Those long, taut legs;
those milky smooth thighs;
those intoxicating hips.
Those legs with the power to gift life
or destroy it.

Oh Lord, give me strength

Words tumble out of my mouth
like novice gymnasts falling flat.
Or there are none at all.
Or they are preceded by machine-gun-stutters.
She smirks, lollipop still in her mouth,
lips stained red like she’s ****** the life out of me.

Only I think she has—
I check my neck to make for certain.
It’s suddenly so hot in here.
My shirt is moist; I need a cold shower.
My pulse is racing; I think I’m going to faint.

She takes my retreat as an invitation to advance,
leans over my desk far enough to expose
her lack of a bra. Leans in closer.
So close I taste cherry.
And I don’t know if she’s blinked, yet.

Her voice is a knife penetrating flesh,
the sound of the first drop of blood
spattering on the ground.
Her words could ****.
Toying with a button on her blouse, she whispers,
“I really need to get something off my chest.”

How unfair the hormones, giving this child
an adult body. How unfair the hormones,
giving her adult desires. How unfair the hormones,
making her bored with boys her own age.
How unfair my own hormones, giving me a sweet-tooth
for ***** moans.

She volunteers to stay after class.
I freeze, unable to respond.
You’d like to think that there’d be no question,
that you’d instinctively do the right thing when tested.
She is no mantis, I’d leave here head still attached;
there are other ways, though, to end a man.
And, indeed, I would be destroyed.
But this is biology.
The lesson could be that males
will seek out *** at great cost to themselves.

I despise those girls at the gym:
the skinny ones,
their black spandex tight
against contours and curves
that beckon with every footfall;
those skinny girls
that spend hours on the treadmill
without breaking a sweat and still
manage to smell sweetly;
those skinny girls
always taking selfies and body shots,
preaching to followers to do things
naturally
even though their robust *******
don’t bounce

You can find it in candy, in baked goods, maybe in a decadent mole. You can sip a hot cup of it on a cold day; you can smother ice cream with it. Just about everyone has tasted chocolate, most find it absolutely delicious (can you even be trusted if you don’t?). We give it on days of love, days of sadness. July 7 is even dedicated to chocolate. It should come as no surprise, then,
that Aztecs thought cacao seeds were a gift from the gods. Even used them as currency. While letting chocolate melt over your tongue in near ****** fervor, do you think of it as a rotten thing? Such glorious, mouth-watering, diving chocolate starts its life from slimy, bitter beans hiding inside an alien looking cacao pod. And the first step to chocolate is fermentation. You let it spoil.

Perhaps only those with podopholia would joyously consider licking a foot. Yet, how popular: to consume milk rotting with the same bacteria found on our feet and in our armpits. The smellier the better. The French, so admiring of this, call the most offensive, tasty smells “god’s feet”! Like chocolate, cheese is also delicious rot.

Not all rot is bad rot. Fermenting kept civilization alive and fed before the invention of refrigeration. From sauerkraut to pickles to beer—and the list goes on—many culinary masterpieces were achieved.

We, however, are not food
no matter how much we tried to consume
one another. We aged
but did not ferment into something greater
than ourselves.
You do not satisfy my sweet cravings,
I do not intoxicate you.
We simply spoiled; turned toxic.

She was a small woman;
although, she’d be quick to point out
she was an inch too tall to be classified
a little person.
And my bed, while not massive,
it once accommodated three sleeping adults.
However, when she and I slept,
its space was tragically inadequate.
Somehow, I became like a mountain climber
forced to attempt rest on the slimmest sliver of cliff,
one wrong toss or turn in the throes of slumber
and I was an avalanche of frustration
falling for her in all the wrong ways.

We’re not together anymore—
there were few reasons much bigger than her.
How we slept, or rather,
how she slept was indicative of our issues.
If ever I start to miss her, I stretch out
and roll over back into reclaimed territory.
Her name is merely a memory
of confiscated space,
of the destructive power of avalanches