Between the two of us, in this moment, we are several integrals’ worth of madness.
Let’s do it in a scatter, I suggest. Our clothes decide we are not meeting their emotional needs and so they break up with us, which is fine; we knew we would disappoint them anyway. Jumpsuits hold such grudges. The whole bed is an indigo airplane landing strip and I crash into it and fall two, three floors below, bounce off the building’s foundations, ricochet back up into your arms with concrete wet in the corner of my eye. You catch me and your skin keeps rippling. There is no hard, there is no soft, there is five of you inside a square root of me; there is an eyeball rolling between keloided chest and remembering edema. There are precisely twenty-six and five-eighths exits located between both of our bodies. We take them all and eat the fleshdoors that held them.
I am preoccupied with the crevices of you, each tastes like a new language, you are such a teratoma. When I scream, you lost your hearing five weeks ago. When you come, I tasted it in my first kiss. I play games in riding you, grinding on just the head for half a lifetime, a slow slide down in our old age, and then we are reincarnated, and then I age us again, slamming all the way down. You are a torment in me, you now have a childhood with no sound, your hands trap me and rock; two fingers investigate us through a thin layer of cells and I am a seizure, sixteen of me is spilling on your hips.
It is important to you that I get to know myself and I believe in this, too, I think it is useful for our relationship, and learning it off your skin is, on the whole, an excellent method. Your body is a river in my palms; eight thousand two hundred and fifty-three of you are looking down at me at the same time, and I have not known such joy as being stretched under a gaze like this. I am choked with emotion, you are thick with it, it deforms the anatomy of my face, my jaw, my gullet, a multiple truth. My forearms have decided that (a) they are chains, (b) they are lonely, and (c) they are shy, so they lock in my back and leave the maneuvering to lips and tongue. The tonsils claim to help but we all know they don’t do anything, lazy bastards.
I am an adventure book with a strangled siren for a spine, I am a muffled beat. You are a wrap behind my skull, a shout of flesh knotted in my hair, a desperate and dying piston. There is a tremendous emptying even before the emptying and I keep my eyes open to see it and you keep your eyes open to show me, and all our spikes and scales and scarlet and batleather bits snap into focus and my talons are in your hamstrings and your wings are quivering, breaking down the brick of the walls, and your eyelids shift to the corners of your eyes but you don’t close them because you are showing me, and my irises are turmeric and I see you and the sound that tears out from your throat as you come in mine is dark purple and it slithers down your body as you shudder. Time decides to stretch, the sound slides down the saliva on my chin and slips down my body to where my fingers are molding gold, and you don’t understand, that sound is a beast I would worship, so when it touches me, it drags a counterpart up into my mouth, time reverts, our sounds and small deaths are synced, vocal cords sending vibrations around you. You are filled with aftershocks, you do not let go of my head, we are buried like this.
They never figure out what to put on our joint headstone.