Oh tonight I am full of dreadful intent. Tonight the fuel behind my touch is enough to burn this city block down, refinished floors and all. The patterns of my fingertips are dangerous code, and when they reach behind your neck and stroke the short hairs that graze your collar, I am a living feverish stream of data, warning signals sent straight into your brain stem, flushing through your spinal fluid, clouding into your nerves like blood rushes into water, right down to the soles of your oh so well shod shoes. Destruction is what communicates in my touch tonight, the hunger of the universe to crack you open and suck out the soft parts like candy. Butterscotch is what your fear will taste like, or salted toffee, gold and thick and smoky. You'll pretend not to notice it as you look into my eyes, though you really want to turn away. But no matter how delicately the shadows of my lashes fall on my cheeks, the fear will be what you feel. You'll feel weak. You'll get angry. You'll try to manufacture outrage as a natural antibody. It won't make a difference. I hide in the place where they tell you not to be afraid of girls.
The trick is to find the ones who want the fear. Then I don't feel bad for being so hungry.
Both images and words very cool!
ReplyDeleteoh man can I just tell you I read this while Dinosaur Jr. played in the background and it made my arms break out in goosebumps.
ReplyDelete"Butterscotch is what your fear will taste like, or salted toffee, gold and thick and smoky."
the poetic and yet just real life feel to this is now copied and (above my writing desk) to remind me to not get overly Shakespearean
credited of course and hopefully not something that bothers you.
I really loved this. I sort of wished (and maybe this really didn't actually happen) that it didn't become so much about the other.
bah sorry I'll stop acting like I'm in a grad class reading this.
Much enjoyed!