These words are my barrier to suicide … also, the sound of my name in her throat. I’m obsessed with her, with that voice. She sounds like a trench is inside of her. 

I hope she likes my little black shoes and socks. I’m a sweet and gentle, good boy for her. We serve the same gods, of sex and art, and excess in all things, especially sound. 

I almost call her, though it is 3am, to interrupt her dreams and ask how they feel inside of her, if they are spectral and vivid.

I wonder if she pushes her fingers inside and scoops her own scent into her nostrils, sometimes like sweet earth, sometimes like a brassy coin.

We speak so romantically to one another; it’s like we’re playing dress up, pretending to be poets and wizards, naked lovers and occultists.

“To the witches and scientists!” we cheer, and clink imaginary goblets, then sit in front of a gigantic mirror and gossip, and nip at each other like tricksters charming nasty gods. 

Both of us so hooded with thick hair, and hers is perfectly golden for weaving tiaras and for tugging during play.

She is the only one who doesn’t think I’m too dark, but I think it’s because she is the darkest of anyone I know. The devil is sometimes golden and dreamy with a sharp, mean tongue.

It is the tongue that knows what it is doing, the only that inspires my mangled and dull nerves to attention.

She is jealous and doesn’t know my mind is her throne; my heart is a giant beak gobbling up her grubs,

and even the most revolting parts of her still beguile me, like a fly allured by the stinking, rancid petals of a corpse flower.