I am no disciple, I am the deity of misplaced desire. Men often mistake my ego for exaltation. My body is no place for expiation even as hands press into my flesh. Call it their providence. Call it a gift from God. Dirtied hands delve into my holy water, hoping that somehow I could save them from sin. I am their temple of temporary absolution. The notion that women like me are just bread to be broken for communion. This isn’t a confession of some cumbersome contrition, in fact I revel like red devils in the night. Purgatory is just a name for the space between my thighs. Penitence is what men prefer after impious action. This isn’t faith, it’s fetish, I am a sacrificial altar for masochists masquerading as messiahs. Palms up they pray in demeaning doxology. This is a covenant of crucifixes and false prophets, filled with gnashing teeth and unhinged jaws. The serpent reincarnated is a Judas hidden in the anointed. Take all that I am worth and call it tithing. Take all that I have and call it retribution.
dead air hangs heaviest on phone calls cut short the static hummed like an ancient hornets nest in my head deep imprints left from landline buttons on my cheek i thought if i pressed hard enough i could pretend plastic resembled the feeling of his face against mine i thought if i pressed hard enough i could pretend the static sounded like his voice in my ear
he told me once that he liked my skin but what he meant is that he liked it better on the floor i would have never guessed how quickly hungry hands could eat me alive but i wanted their starvation to be my salvation i always knew i was a better window than a wall but I didn’t know how easy it was to see through me
seven syllables like bee stings my throat began to swell like his words themselves were anaphylactic and as i began to see stars i pretended i was in shock he left me like a bullet exits a body and i guess that’s what i get for loving a loaded gun but I’ve always been known to be the first to pull the trigger roulette was just a way to pass the time between waking and sleeping
i was a phantom of longing and lament i missed his hands even when they were around my neck i wasn’t a woman i was shades of blue and violet and unwarrented violence
the perverse pleasure of pain left like a malady in my mind that spread across my nervous system and seeped its way into my bone marrow the only chemo i could find were empty beds and dark rooms indiscriminately i handed myself to the radiation of sterile hands and nameless faces i wanted them to rearrange my molecules or at least help me shed the skin he had liked so much
etched into my eyelids in glowing persistence were the words he left me with i hung onto them, i gripped them tightly, white knuckled desperation i clung to the sound of your voice rattling like a chain link fence in my mind “you will never be enough” i wanted so badly for you to be the cure i made myself love-sick **** and limerence felt like love even when the landline went dead i realized that corpses have a funny way of staying just alive enough to get through the day
Even in the quiet moments I couldn’t admit to myself that I missed you the way lungs miss oxygen. I was never one for confessing my guilt, you weren’t either. I think I found purgatory and it exists in the space between my fingers and the send button. I miss you texts I’ll never send, I’m sorry’s I’ll never own up to. Seamlessly, we slipped into limbo. Forever floating in the frantic realization that friendships fade away. Your smile will always be a part of me, I’ll carry it with me like the change I lost in my car. Only reminded of its existence when I’m looking for something else. Is my laughter still stuck in your ear drums the way yours is in mine? Am I still stuck like a knot in your spine that even a chiropractor can’t comprehend, I’m sorry I’m causing you pain, I’m sorry but I’m stuck here too. When you wake up in the morning and there’s a sharp pain in your chest, that’s me and I’m trying to break my way out. I’m tired of being trapped behind ribs that don’t want me and being stuck like a disease in a body that resists me. It doesn’t take much to realize we loved each other the way babies love the ****, the warm temptation of temporary. I know I was a part of you the way a sliver is to a finger. Risking infection instead of the pain of ripping it out. I hate to say it but I know that even warm bodies die and I guess I just imagined it would be you and I.