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V. Slavy - 2013

i. hate sex i am not whole when i am not wounded. wound me. yes thank you, yes use me. yes and with my back coated in drywall dust, i am a clump of dough ready to be rolled. entangled, we look like an avocado from the side. probably from an aerial perspective we are just your back and my knees. while paused in the heat of something i kiss your neck, twice and carefully. what was that for, you ask. i shrug. i like you, i guess. oh. i thought this was hate sex. now i cant stay hard. i nod. but really i do hate you, i say. this is the only thing youre good for. youre useless when youre not inside me. pleased, you tense up and stab me, probably hundreds of times. stab me a thousand times and my eyes will shine like the girl from Hiroshima who folded origami cranes. what do you want, you whisper. anything, i say, and smile. anything you want to do to me. anything? you wrap your hands tight around my neck. i will kill you. ive always wanted to be inside something as it died. ill strangle you as you ride my dick. yes, please, i say. i am climaxing, i am falling in love, i am sad to know i will survive this. thats exactly what i want. but will you keep fucking me after i am dead. definitely, you say. youll still be warm. its ideal.

ii. warm, clean my feet lie propped on the table next to a copy thus spoke zarathustra and a thermos full of wine. my feet are cold, i say, and you light a cigarette. could i borrow a sock? i have one sock already, but is there another one? um, you say, looking around. i dont, like, have any here. you could probably wear this one, you say, picking up a tube sock from the living room floor. too dirty, i say. i pull my sock onto my left foot. here sit in front of me. you kneel in front of the couch and i work my right foot into your mouth. this feels good, thank you. can you breathe. are you breathing. i say. you nod. the air makes gurgling noises as its sucked into your nose. after forty-five breaths i remove my foot. you are a demon deep-fried in elegance and i am a part-time mammoth hunter.

iii. (weed kills) flowers litter the floor, squished but still vibrant. they all fell out of my hair as we grew old together on the pull-out couch. my tits will contort and grow so large that they swallow my head.

iv. i wont be there to wind you up lying on the same bed, drowning in dirty blankets, starving but too tired to forage for food. hey can i snack on your flesh instead? i want to ask, reaching to bite your neck while choking hers. it is 2pm and there arent any cigarettes; seduction seems impossible. instead i watch you change into her dress, hairy legs and fragile ass encased in glitter. you look cute, she says, smiling. thank you, you say. i feel cute. you fall back onto the bed and kiss her neck softly, disgusting squishy-sounding kisses that i can hear but wont witness. you fall asleep with your back to me, arms wrapped around her. this isnt fair, i think, pouting. im a childish post-drunk grouch but they want me. dont they want me. i tear my body out of bed to puke. i stare lazily at the sad bile collecting in the toilet; my eyes straggle and i notice a long shard of glass on the floor next to my feet. perfect, i say. i pick up the shard and say it again, high pitched and with arms held akimbo. peeeeerrrfect! i spill back into the bedroom and kneel on the bed beside you. i stab the shard into your back. the sparkles from your dress are reflected neatly in the glass; you are dazzling. neat lines of blood race down your back to rest puddled up in bed. pretty, i say, nodding. yes. i twist the shard around, winding you up. when i let go you make a whirring sound as you jump out of bed and run forward. you will run circles in the living room, sharing your pretentious opinions in double-time until youve unwound. until finally youll stand wilting and still.

v. my skin is glazed in kinds of filth dirt, drywall dust, tar stains wine PBR blood spit from the mouths of lovers a weeks worth of make-up, crusted, cried off, & reapplied each morning salsa cigarette ash flower petals and various twigs dried tears hello kitty temporary tattoo

vi. no conclusion infinite variations on the same day. smile, work, stumble home, repeat. politely swallow assertions that enough money will buy transcendent truth. wear your work persona like an itchy plastic mask and pretend you want nothing more than to make latts for ignorant strangers. mop floors as though muddy bleach water is an instrument of absolution. it gets harder to hate burning your hands on the espresso machine. it gets harder not to dunk your head in the mop bucket and inhale: baptism. worn out and rude, when its over: spend entire paychecks on instant escape. transcendent truth, you think, nostrils coated in yellow powder, lungs gray, esophagus burning from a weeks worth of wine. next paycheck, im sure.

V. Slavy is a malfunctioning cyborg and erstwhile barista.

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