Loud music and punky looking girls. Girls who look a little gay; girls who fuck a little gay too. I get myself into trouble this way. She’s got this big heavy hipster glasses and they’re supposed to be a turn-off, but I’m nothing if not a cliché at the best of times. 

I wander(wonder) up to her, real close.

“Don’t-make-a-comment-when-you-don’t-even-know”

I wanted it all, and maybe I still do. I want girls lined up to look up at me. I want punk anthems playing for me as I ripped apart the senseless travesty of modern life. I wanted mohawked blowjobs and a smear of alternating ethnicities through my bed. I wanted hackers and goths and girls with knives and tattoos and tattoos of knives. 

She fades invisible, delirious. She’s got an aura like broken eggs. She arms herself with literature and post-modernism. She muses me, amuses me, draws me so hard and harsh that for a few moments I do, quite honestly, forget that she’s a real person. She’s a Goddess Sex Doll in my hands; she feels no pain and has no need for respect. I get kind of abstract and I’m up to my elbows in her entrails before I even realize things have gotten serious. 

I bite my lip. 
Well, I thought it was my lip.
It was pretty dark in there.
And a lot of people were getting bitten.  

So, I was going to write you this letter… but it wasn’t going to be a letter, it was going to be a story. I was going to write you a story, and then I was going to print it out, and I was going to hand it off to you, before you had to go. But I didn’t do that, did I? No, I didn’t. 

So.

So now I’m going to post it here, I guess. All the few unfinished chapters of it. And you’ll find it, or you won’t, but I know you will, and that’ll be that. That’ll be a few paragraphs of a story I was writing for you. 

It doesn’t go anywhere, but does it really have to? It was like a little music-less video, a series of images and ideas set in motion for no real reason other than rhythm. 

Anyway. They were little words locked away, and now I’m gonna set them free. They’ll be tagged as…. hmmmm…. well, I guess “Poppy’s Story”. They’ll be kind obvious, but then, aren’t I, right? 

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much; won’t you wear your leash?”

She looks at me like I’ve just stumbled into a patch of barbed-wire in winter; like she can see frost-and-rust covered needles about to start digging into my skin, searching out red hot blood to turn to a spray of steam. 

She looks at me like I’m some sort of predator designed to help her get into bed. Like executioner is a sacred sort of occupation.  

I lead her on; she knows where we’ll going, or rather, she knows exactly how we’ll end, but that’s the obvious part, right? Everybody knows how we’re going to end, how we’ll all end; with a shutter and a spurt. 

She looks at me like she’s going to wrap herself around my neck and drag me back down to earth. 

She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking pretty on her knees.
She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking beautiful with a mouthful of my needs.  

I was going to send you this note expressing my affection towards you.

 ………

 You’re like a billion breeds of terrible monster, all stuffed into a pair of sexy socks. You should be isolated and poked with a stick for my amusement. You should have to sit and hold my hand while I think of terrible things to say very quietly to you.

 ………………

 But I want you to find it here, and know that I wrote it for you. 

I’m not writing a novel, and I’m dedicating it to you. Instead of typing, I’m putting my hands all over your body, and instead of imagining fantastic fantasy worlds, I’m thinking about all those conversations I want to have with you.

I want to know you, to get to know you, to fuck you, to bleed all our secrets so I might use your pain and passion as ink. I’ll never tell another soul what you tell me, but that’s only because I’m so goddamn greedy and selfish. 

I don’t want space or time, I just want you. I want you filling up my consciousness and my day. I want to be blind and full of agony from your touch. I want to burn in hell because you put me there. I want to believe in you like I don’t believe in anything else. 

Maybe I just want to be destroyed by something beautiful. 

I’ve had the same new song on repeat for an hour; that’s how I feel about her. I just had to plug in my headphones, because I need to listen to it turned up so loud if fucking hurts (that’s how I feel about her), and it’s still too early in the day for as fierce as I’m feeling (that’s how I feel about her [most mornings, really, to be quite honest]). 

I crank her voice up to levels that threaten to damage me for life.

I have to admit I like it that way - I’m just like those fucking amazing girls I lay with; I’m kinda drawn to the novelty of scars. I have a post-modern fascination with (her)(most things) self-destruction. You can see it my eyes. It’s how suicide gets co-opted into masturbation. 

Self-harm as a form of self-expression. Poetry as a form of truth. 

Ah, if I had any real words, I’d be so much bigger and bolder and brighter, but despite all this page, I am still just a pre-evolved-entity in a cave. 

The song loops, and I turn up the volume (and all my memories of her). The song is thumping like a physical assault. (I can smell her on my hands. I remember the way she said my name. The weird fear of her that I think I’m almost over now.) The song repeats itself again and again and again, and I turn it the fuck up. I can’t stop listening. It’s perfect. It’s the moment. It’s like her - “fractured pop sensibility”. 

But is it forever, or is it just for loud?

I want to stretch out, get all jagged and pointy. She loves me for being so safe, but I get so sick of the way that outfit fits some days. 

 You could breathe right through me, like I wasn’t even there. I could spend my whole life, waiting for you to never come. There’s so many ways we could dance. I could love you like you were on fire. On fire in my eyes.

There’s a lost sense of grasping for something with you. Like I’m trying to remember meaning and intent. Like I’m trying to be brave in the face of total nothingness.

I’ve been stalking you for a lifetime, waiting for you to make your move, waiting to see what you might show to me. 

The ocean spills open like a vein.

I’m surfing her blood like a bad memory, like a tidal flow of sticky crimson syrup. I’m soaking in her, riding high upon her. I’m drowning or floating or flying; I’m high enough to knock my head and never notice.

She ties a knot in my throat, she puts a twist in my blade. A twist of lemon in my drink. A twist of the neck, just a good hundred and eight degrees or so. She’s A hundred and eighty degree burn, up and down my skin. She’s a good show getting bad reception. 

I’m not alone, I just can’t remember her name. 

She comes at me like smoke and lightning, she comes at me like a storm, she comes over me like a storm, all torrential wetness and cries that shake the windows in their panes. She comes at me like a wounded animal looking to hurt somebody. She comes at me like we’ve met sometime before, some strange place and time neither of us could ever remember being.

I fuck like I’m scared of the sky crashing down; I fuck like I’m afraid of her, and I’m not sure if she can tell. I’m not sure if she’ll understand quite what I’m scared of. I’m not sure if anybody really will, and I’m not worried much about that anymore. Scared is just a way of feeling, and I’m used to feeling a lot of things.

I feel their bodies, pressing up in the night. Like strangers seeking warmth, like old familiar friends looking for loaned out cash from years past. I can still feel her teeth in my shoulder, I can still feel- well, you know what I said. I feel too much.

I try to remember something important, something critical; I twist in the sheets and blink at the lights of dawn as they slowly come on from around the edges of everything. I celebrate my own false titles, and I get a good taste stuck in my mouth.

I went hunting tigers, between her legs. I went hunting for great jungle cats in her underwear, all across her lap. 

She’s all big cats in the eyes, all silently crawling, consuming beasts with terrible mouths and insatiable hungers. She’s all sharp bites and sharp growls and bits that go bump-in-the-dark. 

Me, I’m not scared of her, I’m just scared of robots that look like her. Mechanical anti-humans patrolling her living space, looking for lovers to grind up in between their gears. Great awful mechanizations, hungry for affections. 

You, you could be my friend. You could hold me down while she does it to me. You could watch what I do to her, you could keep a record of it; something I can reread a little later in the day when I need to be reminded of just how fucking amazing life, and fucking, can be. 

You’re a constant reminder of how badly I want to tear this place apart.

I had you on my mind, when I had her on me. I had you, and those things you said, back when you weren’t saying words, when you were just all gyration and moanings and that specific look you get in your eyes when everything’s all blurry.

I can tell when you’re looking into me. I can tell when she’s looking through me, when I’ve gone invisible, indelible, when I’ve gone looking for character and characterization in my interactions with, well, you know, those others. 

I’m drawn to the Other, I can’t help but admit it. Something that’s different, something that’s a little off. That’s what turns me on, and what turns it up even more so, is talking it over with you. Telling you what I want from her, telling her what I like about you.

There’s nothing I don’t enjoy about you that couldn’t be said with about six good feet of rope, and a short sharp blade.

“I want to tell you something about her,” I say quietly, and then the bag goes over my head, and the weight comes down.

The weight comes down, and I go down. She’s cool hands knotted about my throat like a tie. She’s writing her name in bruises across my body. She’s rewiring all my old impulses and pour gasoline on my scars and sparks.

Everything’s all dark when I’m in her arms, and then she opens her eyes, and everything goes up in smoke and charcoal briquets. You know what I’m talking about; hot burning red, layered under black. 

She’s burning just under the top layer of my skin. She’s sunk deep into my waters, and she’s pulling all the filling out of my stuffed-toys. She’s got a knife for a tongue and secret to tell me, and a bunch of other things that are just about to happen.

She looks deep into my eyes, like something’s just about to happen,
And then she does.

I’d like you to watch me write for her. I’d like you to see how it makes me feel to put my words into her mouth. I’d like you to see how she looks at me, when I’m looking back at her.

She sits so close to me that I forget myself in front of others. I forget that I’m high, I forget that I’m me, I forget that I’m not from a thousand years in the future and armed with the knowledge to tear this world in half. She makes me feel impossible, cyborgian, futuristic, kissed throughly by karma and gods of catastrophe. 

These are notes taken, on the way down. This is a thing that is happening, like drowning happens, like death happens, like it happens that the sun coming up just happens to follow nightfall. 

I’m in love with the sensation of falling
And I’m in love with her
And I want you to see me, in the midst of both.  

I want to have an adventure with you.

I want to sharpen your swords. I want to help you with your saving rolls. 

I want to put out fires with you, but mostly I want to start them, too.

I want to save lives with you, but I want ruin them too. 

I want to jump through explosions in a stolen car, with you. 

I want to use your fingers to pick other people’s pockets.

I want you to rifle through all my secret drawers. 

You’re less of a dream, and more of a delirium, and luckily, I love being delirious. I rather fall headlong into deep water, all afraid of big fish and keeping my shoelaces knotted about my ankles. 

She ties my tie up. Tight. I feel well-suited to her cause. I feel costumed in my most natural apparel. I feel trussed-up and ready for the oven. I feel like I can feel my head coming loose, the thoughts spreading out wildly, randomly, into all this loose space around myself. 

She pours me a cup of tea, puts a little pill of poison; the pill floats first to the top, then to the bottom. I wash it all down at once, and then sit back, and let the death-trip take over. 

She kisses me, and the lights go out.

That part’s the nice part. This the part that separates all of them from all of me.

I fall away. Into all my litte peaces.