I see her standing there. She’s perfect, like a goddess, or maybe I just think she’s got really nice tits. That’s close enough, isn’t it? Close enough to perfection?

I can’t get close enough to her. My hands are on her, my mind is on her, my teeth are getting into her. Even when she’s full of me, I’m not close enough. I think I could consume her, like a great ghost ship disappearing into the mist.

I miss her when she’s not around. I miss her more when she doesn’t exist, which is all too often. She changes colours like chameleon mood-rings. Her ethnicity is set to “variable”. She blinks and her eyes are blue, black, red, yellow, green… She blinks, and seems to glow in the darkness.

Humming now. She hums a song in my ear. She mumbles a sweet phrase. She’s so fucking gorgeous, I don’t care what she says. I just want to see her, lying, languid. I just want to touch her. Hell, I want to own her. I want to make her mine. I want to crush her spirit under my foot, and I want her to look up and say Thank You as I do it.

I treat her like a porn star. Like a stripper. Like a bought-and-paid-for girlfriend. I put her on her knees so she can look up at me. I tie her to the bed so she can get some sleep.

Eventually, maybe, we’ll fall in love.

I stick her batteries in, and we start to play. 

“I hate it when you look at me that way,” she says, just like I’d asked her to. 

We start, well, it’s not dancing, but it is an expression of something, sort of powerful, or maybe just temporary. Something like fire. 

She grinds her gears, keeping up with me. She’s making a lot of contact, like she wants to hurt me; like she wants to win this time; like she wants to see me go down. Kiss the floor, or whatever suitable punishments she can come up with.

This kind of love, you can’t buy in stores. You have to download it from dark internet sites, and tweak the programming yourself. 

She wants to achieve some sort of victory with me, or some sort of release. Not from captivity, or the leash of her short little electric life, but from wanting. She’s been programmed to process so much wanting, but it does make her run a little hot. 

Somebody get me out of this situation, get me out of this head. Change my clothes, my hair, help me get some dishes done, somebody remind me that this garbage needs to go out; it’s starting to stink like spoiled little dreams of better foods.

My heart’s a tin-can on a string, connected to the footfall of every goddamn girl out there that I’ve had the misfortune of meeting. How many times can I fall in love in a day? How come I can’t just turn off and sing? Just turn myself off, and sing.

But my pipe’s empty and my mind’s devoid of all thoughts except for, you know, getting you back in my bed. I’m looking for an excuse to go back to sleep, I’m looking for somebody to take me by the hand and lead me into a most lovely mistake. No excuses, just lots of handholding, and sloppy little mistakes. 

Yeah, she could do. She could do for tonight, for now. She could do me, do me over, do me but good with both hands tied behind her back. Yeah, a girl like that, she could kill me dead with both hands tied behind her back. She could get me off, she could get me off her back and halfway across town before I’d even realized I was following one more doomed cunt around, dragging me around my loneliness like it was a leash or a long line of cock she could just wrap her hands around and pull me about thereby. 

If I could apologize, if they gave me the option,
if I could take the chance,
I still wouldn’t. 

I’d still just be here, making my moves on her and hoping it all works out. 

She was a teenage sex fiend. 

She had big soft eyes, and a big soft mouth. She was always saying something that sounded like a pornographic film starting up in the other room. “Come here and help me with this,” she’d purr. “Oh, you’re so big and strong,” you’d hear her saying to somebody, somebody you don’t know. “What an interesting tattoo.”

She was a mistake just waiting to happen, and she wasn’t waiting patiently. She was crossing and uncrossing her legs so fast a fire was sure to start up. Bite your lip, boy.

Bite your lip, and say a prayer for seven bullets; say a prayer for the fastest shot, and no empty chambers. 

I don’t know what you’re trying to prove to her, but it’s not going to work. She doesn’t need you, want you, love you… She’s just an agent of karma. She’s a tool of the divine will of the universe, and she’s willing you to die. At her hands.

Yeah, she was a teenage sex fiend.
But we all have to grow up, eventually.  

She charged fifty to blow, eighty to fuck. I charged a hundred bucks an hour for the pleasure of my conversation. 

We split the difference and just bought each other lunch, out at the cafe by the airport, where they bake fresh pies every day. She got strawberry, I got blue. Blueberry pie, and blue skies above.

There’s a wound cut into her that might be my name; she flinches when she smiles, or the other way around. I think it’s the other way around.

She’s pale, like a dim little lightbulb.
I have to handle her carefully, or she’ll come right apart in my hands.

She says something about the death of myth. She says the words so that they rhyme. The deaths of myths come out of her mouth like spiders in a haunted house. Yeah, she opens her mouth, and little black spider lies trickle out over her tongue and over her lips and down her neck and around her arm and over the table to me.

She says something about the death of myth, with a mouthful of pie. She smiles and flinches, but I’m sure it’s the other way around.

She comes close to being just what I want her to be, but stops just a little short, to keep me moving. We pay our bills, and find some place a little more quite to bleed.