—FEELS LIKE IT’S ALMOST MY TURN TO BE THE ONE TO SAY, ‘FUCK YOU.’ 

 

 

august

 

again this morning my thoughts got dressed before I did in bespoke funereal clothes black-on-black draped over other assorted shades of lacquer-black like a field stuffed with murdered crows and I thought this is finally it thank God it’s about time it’s the right moment for sunsetting and cancelled debts an eternal rest but then the alarm screeched and I reached arose aroused all-muscle-memory laden working my way across slick tiles until the subsequent shower blast slashed way too torrid (we’re talking nails--on--skin piping hot) as the steam fogged the mirror then cleared itself like a memory an angel or a halo disappearing into the milky way the afterlife the infinite exit and on-ramp and I saw myself as I actually was for once boney bloated bogus but still breathing panting like a shaggy mutt in a musty august swell as if what I needed was something ungraspable something slightly out of reach but definitely worth it it being the thing the slave-owner most hoped I would wish for saying come here you stupid fuck suck this tit and wait for what else’s to come love painted across her breastplate in jagged red font