every morning after the feeling has frozen

originally published in Short Fiction Experiments, 2014

Image by Georgia O’Keefe

Image by Georgia O’Keefe

The hardest days are not the ones where I cry and wail but the ones where I wake up indifferent. Do I kill myself today or do I pick up my phone to see if I can fuck him taking on the same cadence as do I wear the red or the blue socks to the gym. Everything pouring out of the same cereal box and brought methodically to my mouth with the same cardboard texture.

If I decide to go over there he will put the bottle to my lips and I will suckle at the nectar like a baby. Something soft in the way I give my limbs to his hands to manipulate. Against my tongue, the taste of slick skin as I decide that hanging seems too painful and besides where will I find a suitable load-bearing pipe anyways. Whenever he moans my flesh buzzes and we become a separate breed of animal, both our wetnesses sloshing forwards to completion. After the deed it is as if we are acquaintances who cannot touch or merge our hands.

My body full of small ball bearings. I walk home alone and shaking. Slot a quarter between my thighs and twist my breast until my mouth pops open and the baubles clatter out.

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