she cuts her hair with a burning cigarette and says I want to drink your scents in perfect darkness with nothing but the smell of your neck on my hands. I can do anything, she says, even in a state of confusion and self imposed detachment, I will have you forever. my head’s not there, but who needs thoughts anymore. outside, the sky wears an apocalyptic glow.


they think we are machines

Substance by Leslie Ann O’Dell

I didn’t know what to do then. you found me crouching in the dark with flesh hanging off my bones in a fucked up exhibition of poses. it’s not mine to keep, they seem to scream, and I just laugh at their perfect faces and I see through it, I do, I do, but today I lost my hands. the message worms itself into my movements. liquid tin through steel framed veins.

I choke on the bedroom air. oily tears sink into your neck like slow bullets.

you think you would know

Charles Hippolyte Aubry- Poppies, 1864 

pushed into four corners, a strange light, and I did it all, sliced us up into lone entities. sometimes I choke on the metallic smell.

eyes closing hard at the highest speed and head falling down or to the side, into perfect darkness, where the surface is slippery and abstract and forgetful. far off, a dull bang. and here I am, oblivious, counting my breaths.