I’m sick. I have a fever and flu-like symptoms. I am alone, and have been for hours, lying on my bed with a lavender candle pulsating to the sound of classical music, dancing on the darkness of my ceiling.
I am not aroused but, playfully, I slide my palm over the underside of my hairy behind and begin to gently stimulate each hair with near-static force.
I occasionally push my fingertips into the crevice— my crevice— my end.
How good this feels to be sick and allow oneself to feel the emptiness too dark and bold and powerful to be contained within us.
The comforting, soft touch we can give ourselves is like a loved one holding our hand; it almost tickles, and this sensation although distinct reminds me of the pretend animals my grandma would parade across my back.
Beyond our view the guillotine, existence, slowly begins to descend as we lie, holding hands with ourself on top of the covers, sweat pants around the ankles, grabbing our own *** as the steady rain trickles from the roof of tenement housing and beats on the aluminum gutter for hours until it’s over.
The night has fallen like a punishment for finding no one and it occludes my sight; I shiver, and cannot *******.
Existence is too dark to allow dancing candlelight or baroque masters to tickle its space.
It is filled with falling heads and clutching grasps.