The craving for sashimi was satisfied when I searched “30D” on ebay and sorted the results “Price + Shipping: highest first.”
Supple natural form silicone inserts make me want to be a woman, mad at my lover for not being able to read my mind, hysterical days before shark week, naked on request.
I drag my lead limbs through the days looking for the end of wanting, but it keeps coming.
I am a woman. I am the natural form.
Last year I practiced poverty and it made me skinny. Even my hipster jeans were loose. I had to wear flannel lined leggings underneath to fill out the folds. Other people must’ve taken my body. I remember. I gave it to them. Dark eyes in search of the supernatural, and yellow, smoker’s teeth flattened my body into contemplation.
Who bares their brain and bum and breasts and bras to hallucinations?
I do. I passed the university test. I am a scholar of obsession.
I was never unshaven or obscene. I was my dream self, mentally motionless, only focused on what was in front of me, until he was tired of talking and wanted to listen, then I’d rant about traffic and dreams, clients, and winter wear.
My mouth could move from sun to stars, but we never allowed ourselves that much time.
I wanted that time. I wanted to talk continuously from Thompson Lane to Devonshire Court to Lincoln Ave. We are conversationalists who bed one another. We shared ambiguous stories and had trouble recalling the facts, so we seared the meat to make it presentable and mouth-watering. No one cared that it was undercooked inside.
Every night is brilliant when your ass is pressed to cold pavement and your cheeks are dimpled from pebbles and grit.
He vanished. I know where to send the postcard.
Stamp it or drop it off on the porch.
Wander around the park until no one notices that you’re there. Walk along the railroad tracks like every other lonely soul in every other lonely movie. Take up smoking and pretend you don’t believe in broken hearts.
I am the natural form.