Thursday, April 23, 2015


She is in the heat of you. The slow, sinking, septic, stink of you. She lives in crevasses. You smell of her, and her scent is abhorrent. You don't know this because no one tells you. So you drag this morbid train behind you, always ducking. She won't save you and she won't even warn you when the goddamn train is coming. You'll stand there 'aw shucks, Mable' and then you'll be fucking dog food. Coyote food. You'll be slime and mush and sickness like she is. Maggots.

She is not a Siren. She is not a warrior. She is not a succubus. She is malignancy and complicity and filth and she doesn't even exist except in your mind. She is knitting sweaters, somewhere. But not for you.

You hear her voice sometimes and you shudder because you will never recover from the blow dealt:

You woke alone in the bed. She came home drunk and disorderly and it looked like she'd fucked half the City because they had coke. And maybe she had. And it didn't matter. And that is the sadness. That is the concoction of revulsion that was created.

You will wake with the taste of her on your lips and you will, seldom, but sometimes, remember summer days when you were so happy it hurt.

Because the fall is worse the higher you climb.

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