feeding time
i am a fool kept company by my tight grip and bloody fingernails, clutching to a dream. one that should have died when i gnawed off the bleached ends of my hair. she picked the broken strands from my tongue. one by one. putting them in her own after.
when i lick into her mouth, it is gritty and grainy. it tastes like me and sand and death.
i still dream of her at the kitchen table. the one that isn’t mine anymore and never really was. in the dream, we’re spilling on it. beer and spit and cum and the oozing weight of every accumulated drop of nothingness and everythingness.
everythingness.
she would laugh if she heard that. tell me i made that shit up and i’d say i did and she would tell me that i’m just saying shit and i’d say that i am and she’d tell me i’m brilliant and i would rip my heart out of my chest and feed it to her.
anyway.
where were we? oh, yes. at the kitchen table with beer and spit and cum.
dean tells me to stop biting my tongue. to find someone who finds my venom as a cure instead of poison. i kiss him on the lips when we say goodbye and i hope it’s sweet, sticky, sublime.
sometimes, in that kitchen table dream, she’s wearing my mother’s dress from the 80s. the one that’s heavy with shame and never quite fit me right. it’s purple in some lighting and pink or blue other times. it’s not fit for breakfast but it looks like it’s started to meld to her skin, so i don’t ask her to take it off.
i start to laugh when i realize that she’s shrouded in the salt that i’ve rubbed into my open gashes. blood bubbling like a chemical reaction. i think if i touch her it’ll leave boils on my hands and if that’s true when i press the heels of my palms into her sides they’ll burst. wet, oozing. all over the dress. all over her.
i think i’ve stained enough.