Meat

Richard breathed. Heavy. His dull, grey eyes rode backwards as he groaned and slunk into the decaying pastel lawnchair. Only the finest. This time, he didn't even try to make small talk. Usually, I would have been glad; small talk is like performing the Heimlich on yourself. But Richard had become voided of all social niceties and his stagnant ale breath pierced the room from all directions.

Over the years I had known many Richards. There was the Christian Richard, who suddenly flaunted crucifixes on gold chains, and plastered the back of his El Camino with "God Bless America's". There was the love-sick Richard who drank cheap red wine and pretended to be "flipping through the channels" when I caught him watching some cheesy romance flick. But even the wall-punching drunk Richard was better than the rage-induced apathetic Richard.

"What, you just gon' sit there?" He asked as he shoved a piece of meat into his mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, you just gon' sit there?" He caught my eyes for a second as if to punish me for not eating, but then he refocused on the meat. I traced the lines of grapes on his peeling wallpaper. The sound of his fork scraping the plate wrung in my ears.

"Dammit," he said. He threw down his fork and massaged the wrinkles on his brow. And in that one word he had expressed the hatred of his own inadequacy that had plagued him for years.

"I'm sorry," I tried.
"Don't be," he snapped.
Under the sickening heat of night we sat in silence.

raw; Icicles

Consonants
words—
Yours—
stale Bread

Ornamentation
Heavy—beaded
Lies
hanging icicles
shatter

i like you when hands are not
(your hands are bigger than mine—it’s Quite alright)
issues, and Skin is yours and mine
but we eat each other’s words first course
yours
and Mine

please dont
filter
pretend
or What
ever it is you do

i like Things raw

Intellectualism

Intellectualism kissed her on the cheek
and then asked her how she felt about it
"Good."
Tongue trained only to release what is safe
Good was good
But good was not enough this time.
He whispered gently down her neck
Crevices cringed in psychotic delight
Nails scoured her palms
As she grabbed one last breath of sanity
Cynicism shot through veins
Addicted
She bellowed her submission
But he was gone.

Something

Excuses cursed his fingertips as they approached her. “A friend of a friend.” She bit back with sarcasm, in bitter compliance. She pretended to be bored, but these were her favorite type of games. Mind games.

“Something,” he muttered. That was all that was left; something was everything. He craved nothing, lusted it, desired it, but nothing was something and she was something. And he wanted her something.

Intoxicated, she buried herself beneath the sea of sheets. Vacant eyes followed the curves of her toes as she swallowed, heavy, lifeless. The stranger understood. She hated him for it, but she loved it. Everything was a paradox. Everything was new and immense, yet inconsequential and numbing. Beautifully ugly. Wrong, but right.

There was something, and it was good.