It is a story I tell myself that I need constant love.
We are blackened air-domes bubbling underwater. We pop to the surface gasping. You drag me down hard by the ankle. I kick at your face and collapse onto your chest, coming.
We drape in flannel sheets, bare legs stretching from beneath the covers. I roll to my side. You stand up and wipe yourself with an old shirt.
I close my eyes and trace fingers across her lower spine. She is damp with sweat. I feather my chin along her stomach. My eyes lift to her cheekbones, dark hair curled against her temples.
He throws me to my back and I spread my knees and the wind blows out the candle.
He cannot stop cleaning. My intestines are impregnable. Try. Make me.
I don't want to write I don't want to write I don't want to write I have finally clipped my nails. I'd been meaning to since Christmas.
He keeps his wallet in a plastic bag because the zipper has broken. My words are your interpretation. My words are ivy clutching yellowed lattice. I once was a romantic.
Your eyes are becoming my eyes but only sometimes. At the same time I am growing more willing to let you see. I light a candle by flipping a switch; battery-powered flames.
By its flickering light I am knitting a scarf. She is made of a sweater, all stitched together with different colored threads. My words are the needle and the erasement.
