Swear to god this is a true story.
Picture, like, the hottest woman you’ve ever seen-
like Natalie Portman in Black Swan
like Angelina Jolie in Gia
like a young Carrie Fisher in her slave Leia outfit
like any **** star you’ve ****** it to, honestly, any **** star
and there’s this woman, she’s standing bare-assed naked in front of me
swaying her hips slowly and making all these other women
look like Sloth from the Goonies, “Hey You Guuuys.”

Her hair, I just want to run my hands through it, messy it up,
yank it tight the way a jockey grips the reins when he’s about to come
in first place at the Kentucky Derby.
Bend her over, make her my Kentucky Derby.
Her hair, I **** you not, it looks just like yours.

Her eyes, I swear to god, in her eyes I could see the sunrise,
the sunset, the Aurora Borealis, the Perseid meteor shower,
and a lesbian **** on the beach in Cabo during Spring Break.
Honestly, if I couldn’t **** her brains out,
just staring into her eyes would’ve been a great consolation prize.
As a matter of fact, you and her have the same eyes.

Her smile, sweet Jesus, I wanted it.
I don’t just mean I wanted her lips wrapped around my *****.
I mean, her smile was enough to run to Kay Jewelers or Aaron Brothers
or wherever the ******* go to get a ***** a ring.
I wanted to love her the way police bullets love black bodies.
Believe it or not, her smile was exactly like yours.

And her ****, do I have to mention they’re the best pair I’ve ever seen?
God probably even patted himself on the back for those.
Of course, I haven’t seen yours yet…

I swear to god, she smelled like a waffle
and I don’t mean that cheap instant toaster ****,
I mean like home-made batter poured into a waffle iron,
topped with gobs of butter and expensive, top-shelf Vermont Maple
and I don’t know if I’m supposed to be ***** or hungry;
but either way, I want to dive right in.
Don’t give me that look, breakfast is my favorite meal.

So she takes her finger, brushes it against my lips,
and I would’ve ****** the Universe out of that finger,
but her touch is like gossamer.
She slowly dances her finger lower,
pauses at my chest, probably wanting to swirl it in some chest hair
but I don’t have any–this is probably confusing to her.
When she trails lower toward my belly button, it tickles
but in a good way, the way it tickles when you slide your finger into
the envelope that holds your Christmas bonus.
This woman is such a tease and I can’t help but think I should tie her up
and go down on her like a bulldog eating peanut butter.
She’s not even touching my **** yet and already I want to blow my load.
I’m afraid I just might when she finally gets there.
Her touch still so soft, so gentle, so delicate
like the extra-absorbency tissues I ******* into…

****!
It all makes sense now.
I’ve fallen asleep after ******* again.
See, I read this article about the benefits of ******* before bed
so these days I’m finding every excuse to take a nap.
Only imagine my surprise when I open my eyes.
I wasn’t imagining that delicate tickling sensation.
Sitting proudly atop my ***** *****
like a ******* prince charming ready to take down the dragon
is the biggest, meanest, ugliest, blackest black widow I’ve ever seen in my life.
I swear to god, we do something like lock eyes, I’m frozen in terror
and I shake my head furiously but the ****** bites me, anyway;
I scream that like poor sap Aron Rolston; only
it’s my ***** that get caught underneath the boulder.
I smack the **** out of that black widow.
But it’s too late.

And now, after all the venom
and the swelling and the oozing
and the scabbing,
well, my ***** isn’t as pretty as it used to be.
I wouldn’t, but others might even use the words
“ugly” and “deformed”.
To be honest, it breaks my heart.
And no ******’ kidding, now, my *****, well,
it looks just like you.

I don’t want to write about you anymore
But then again, there’s nobody else who fascinates me like you do

I don’t want to dream about you anymore
But then you remind me of all the little details you remember about me and I can’t breathe

I don’t want to talk to my friends about you anymore
But then I see your sleeves rolled up and I can’t focus on doing the things I need to do today

I don’t want to imagine that our paths crossed at different times anymore
But then I see your eyes meet mine and I can’t imagine you going away without knowing how I feel

I don’t want to keep ranting about you incessantly
But then I see your shy grin and I just lose control of everything I thought I knew

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

The phone rings,
Or rather vibrates,
As I stir my instant coffee
Because my Keurig is broken
And I haven’t gotten around to replacing it.
The lady on the other end
Of the call
Says she’s with the bank.
She’s selling identity theft protection subscriptions.
I listen to her
Explain
What that is
With mild excitement growing in my stomach;
Not with regards to the
Subscription,
But over the
Tones and intonations —
The way she breathes:
Softly,
Warmly,
Unconsciously.
I let her run with it,
Feigning curiosity at first.
A question here,
There,
To really get her going.
I wonder when she was last ******?
She asks to verify my name,
Address.
She mentions a credit score package
(Ooh la la)
That will provide me with insight as to whether my identity has ever been
Stolen.
(This call
Is getting steamy)
She tells me that in order to receive the package I need to confirm my enrolment in the subscription.
‘What?
Could you repeat that?’
I can feel it
Tickling,
Licking,
My soul,
As I sip my ****** instant coffee.
I tell her
That I absolutely won’t enrol,
That I refuse,
But that she should be a voice actor
Or that if she was a voice option for Siri
I would surely select her.
She doesn’t have a response,
Choosing to wish me a good evening instead,
And to thank me on behalf of her employer.
‘No,
Thank you dear.
Call this number whenever you like.
I don’t want your talents to go unappreciated by other customers
Who I’m sure are all swines.’
Click.
I stare at the ended call
And fantasize about your voice,
And when you were last ******.
Too bad the coffee is ****.

the door creeks


"Ah, I've been waiting it for weeks."


"It's surely the Reaper, the final undertaker."


waiting for nothing


"Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his helldog to do the job."


the void avoids my thoughts


"Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so moody."


"Somebody, take my thoughts and take me voice. Not to feel more sore."


waiting


creeking

What do I do to prove my worth and show my love for you?

I might ride a mighty raging steed to defend my maiden’s honor.
I could.
Well, maybe not. I’m very bad with horses.
I’d just fall off and bust my ***.
It would be a bit absurd.

I could pick you every daisy, rose, and mum; every flower in the world.
I could.
And make a huge bouquet.
But that would make you sneeze, I think
and no one else has flowers.

I could bring you down the moon and stars from their home up in the sky.
I could.
But where the hell would you possibly put them.
Your closet can’t have near the room,
and it’ll cause havoc in the tides.

I could give you the beating heart from my chest to prove my endless love.
I could.
For truth, no—I don’t think I could.
I kinda need it now to live and,
well, frankly that’s really rather gross. I mean…yuck.

How do I prove my love for you and convince you of my worth?

I hold your hand.
I hear your voice.
I kiss your lips.
I give you all my time.
For such a love as you
I could.

I wanted to write without rhyming
but it became a question of timing.
How could I just flow
and not ever know
when to st

A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.

Digital clock: 2:43

A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.

Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.