These words are my barrier to suicide. 

That, and 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 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 her, 

If they are spectral, or eidetic like mine. 

If she sticks her fingers inside of herself and scoops her own scent into her nostrils 

Sometimes sweet earth, 

Sometimes a brassy coin.

We speak so romantically to one another 

It’s like we are playing dress up 

And pretending to be poets and wizards

And nurturing lovers. 

“To the witches and scientists!” we cheer, 

And clank imaginary goblets.

We sit in front of a giant mirror and gossip 

And nip at each other like tricksters 

Charming nasty gods. 

Both so hooded with thick hair. 

Hers is perfectly golden 

For tugging during worship and combat. 

She is the only one who doesn’t think I’m too dark. 

But I think she is the darkest of all of us 

Because the devil is golden and dreamy sometimes

And has 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. 

We both were the eldest daughters of lonely mothers

And learned to speak and walk like oracles do, 

In forked tongues: one prong the wisdom, one deception

The whole tongue the truth

Dark daughters 

She is jealous and doesn’t know my mind is her throne. 

My heart is a giant beak gobbling up her grubs. 

But those who don’t devour stinky things 

Are poor poor creatures, 

immune to aphrodisiacs. 

I want to sniff every perfume.

Love to all lovely and ugly things about her. 

And hell and destruction to any pieces of sky

That would separate her from me.