after a dyed fabric has dried, it may be kept as is,
or treated with a substance bath to alter its appearance.
when treated with tannins, dyed fabric fades.
the industry jargon for this is "saddening";
dulling it, diluting its color till only
a muted, polyphenolic echo remains.
such is to sadden fabric.
and such is how i felt:
plunged into scalding water, adulterated
by the bitter tincture of your amnesiatic neglect.
clench me by the collar of the button-up i wore just for you,
encircle my hollow torso with your corrosive hands
(i starved just for you, almost-lover),
no holds barred, and keep me down under until
i am steeped tasteless, bled of everything that
makes me sing cerulean and cry pewter,
rejoice goldenrod and pen indigo...
and i will be stained the hue of your rapture.
would you love me then, almost-lover?
i want you to (please / don't / touch) me—
to strip me and admire my figure in your myopic vision,
without restraint, because **** makes my heart ache
and this is so much better, is it not? (is it really?)
i want my neck bruised by your vigor,
and collarbone perforated by your teeth;
my tongue will set time to this sordid minuet
of thrice-bitten lips over four spindly limbs
that are unsure of what to do with themselves.
it's these nights i need you more than ever,
almost-lover, when the hospital folds and
seersucker duvet covers of homes away from home
seem to, suffocate, ensnare, cremate
my perspiration-slicked figure whole,
contorted and aching from cold,
in romantic heat death embrace;
in the shades of the gloaming, i sundown,
sometimes with lust but always
with adoration,
with exaltation,
with deification;
laying what feeble oblations have i
on the altar of my old testament god,
who grips indulgence in his left palm
alongside pain.
i am tired but tired never wins.
the harvest comes late and the punishment
is his wrath, my deathless death by his hands,
and in those tainted waters
he could baptize me again and again,
**** me over and over,
till every orifice is inundated with
everything i (never) wanted.
as i force myself to stare at those bare,
writhing bodies for hours, those hours when
carnal leisure so often accompanies vice,
my scratchy, woolen throat abrades at my voice
and i want to retch with each inhale.
as the torpid tide pools of saliva
lap against my cheeks,
an overwhelming sense
of nausea consumes me.
i take these sensations
silently as they come,
moment by moment,
patiently enduring this
migraine of the heart.
i’ll *** for you any night, almost-lover,
if it makes you happy:
my god is just as he is cruel.
sadden me till my epiclesis,
my prayers for intimacy,
are duly answered either with
flesh or scraps of providence
(devout as i am, i will never complain
or be in want of more than i am permitted).
forget the sins i have yet to commit.
forget the sins i am too scared to confess.
forgive them, because i am your
most esteemed worshipper,
a singular boy of faith
in your hell of babylon.
dear god, if i cannot have your love,
i...
will feast on your body in its stead,
taking unholy communion from unclean lips,
in the futile hope of mollifying
the abyss i carved out within.
death comes in many flavors, almost-lover,
but none so decadent as this.
