If memory is a tool by which I am making myself, why do I make it painful, suspicious, engulfing? She is walking through the city of the rich. She refuses to be loved deeply. Though she loves to fuck no one will touch her, except physically. What do you do with a slut? Reach for the ketchup bottle.
Laughing red. Swallow. Always ready to laugh. Look, he cuddles himself, he needs human contact. I want to go back to the riverbank to see whether the swans are sleeping or were hurt by all the darkness, by this dream’s actual edges. Identity lies between the legs, blood filled with broken glass, like her throat, a perfect
enclosure. No, it is dead water, it needs a place in which love is almost over and music mostly doesn’t matter. She believes her walls are stained with menstrual blood, she watches her past kisses linking up, forming bridges with someone else’s skin but crossing, not looking back, she learns how to speak
and unravels her form, her illegal marriage to limbo. She holds a gun in her hand. She is sure, as sure as, undo awe, undo or something whispers inside her ear: You wear these senses unusually. You cradle a foul urge to create history. You have failed to die and are leaving behind an immensely human smell.