“There’s nothing more beautiful than a lovely girl with nothing to say,” he said, fetching his bag of tools from the backseat of the cab. “A lovely mouth and what’s to be stuck in it, hmmm?”

While outside, the crowd dispersed quickly into the night. 

I’m in love with you. 

Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting to hear me say? Now that I’ve gotten my teeth fixed? Now that I got a better job and a nicer looking car?

I want to sleep with you. I want to sleep beside you in your bed, like your cat, like an extra pillow, like a childhood toy. 

I want to be close to you, like underwear, like a diary page stained with tears and thoughts. I want to be close to you like right under your tongue.

Isn’t that what you wanted me to tell you?

I’m in love with you. 

She comes up to me, comes on to me, drunk as she can be, and giggling. Everything about her reminds me of why she left me, and why I left her. She left me, but I broke up with her. I broke up with her once she’d left the room, and she still blames me for that.

She’s waiting.
By the stairs.
And she’s waiting.
for me to come home.
Doors try to slam, but stay open.
She tries to close the conversation, but the topic remains open to debate. 

She’s a big fat soap-bubble, floating on my breath. 

She loves me until I leave bleed.

Okay, so we weren’t fucking, we were just dancing, right? Sure you could tell that from a distance off, but the closer you got, the harder it was to tell where one of us stopped and the other started. 

I started and stopped all over her. She made me make a mess of her, I couldn’t help it, nor would I have even if I could’ve. She looks good all messy. She looks good, looking up at me, all messy, from the floor. 

She makes a sound like choking when she takes me on, she makes a similar sound when she takes me down. She takes me down like she wants to break me into pieces on the floor. She takes me down like she’s hungry and thirsty and angry, all at once.

Her eyes swallow me up. Her lips too. 

I falter for a second, like a bullet that isn’t sure where to fly. 
She aims me at her heart, and I follow through.  

I tune in her frequency, I tune her in, and I tune her up. I go after the knobs and dials of the machine, and then I go past that, reaching to go wild with the wiring. 

She’s spitting sparks now, she’s jacked up on the threat of threats, and the chance to hurl about a few of her own. She’s chewing a mouthful of potential abuse and outrage. 

There’s a taste in the air like burning; something acidic, right on the tip of my tongue. She just sits there, twitching nervously. She comes hard, like an epileptic fit in screaming neon shades. She comes like she’s coming loose, like she’s coming apart at the seams. 

Seems like, it anyway. Seems like she’s coming for me, like an inevitability, like death or taxes. She’s coming for me, on the edge of my finger, on the edge of my consciousness, as something I never quite forget or get tired of pushing away. 

I tune myself in to her frequency, I turn myself into her idea of something to want. I shape-shift into something that slides into her just a little too tightly. I find out what her wavelength is, and then I get on it.

I ride her frequency all night, a transonic signal ringing in my ears, strange radiations glowing from off my skin. 

My eyes follow her out into the world. She arms herself with a pretty smile and a loaded gun. She turns her music up loud, and handles her headphones like they’re going to explode into flames and kinetic anger. 

She’s all that stands between me and total annihilation, and she’s bringing it to me. She’s stepping through my death like its a doorway to somewhere nice to be for the winter. 

I flinch, and take a step back, nervously. I stare at the glass of the window until I get the shards stuck in my face. I laugh and tell bad jokes until there’s blood pouring down my face and neck, into a little puddle on the floor.

My stomach knots like it’s five miles of rope being used to haul a grand piano up the side of a mountain. Everything about me feels so useless and old when you’re around. Even my death seems cliché. 

Everything feels like it happens in the shade with you. It always feels like we were just out walking in the rain. Every day with you feels like a day off from the world, which seems especially weird considering that you are the world, when you’re with me.

You’re something I could explore, and something I can never escape. The gravity of what you say, drags me back down into your soil. Your upper atmosphere chokes me, like you choke me. Your hands around me, my throat. 

“She’s so good; it’s so bad.” I forget myself when she’s around. I forget those promises I made to myself. All those lies I wrote in smoke and ash across my morning. I spoke the words, I swore, I’d never let this her happen to me again. 

She just wants to watch me die. I get that now. 
I just want her to want to watch me die. I think I’m starting to get that now. I wasn’t brought to here, I came to here on my own free will. And then I gave it all up to play a much more splendid game.

You want to turn me down, turn me back around, turn me over and over like your pillow when you can’t quite get comfortable or tired enough to fall to sleep.

She fucks me like she’d like to see me again some time.
I appreciate the sentiment sediment; the heavy weight to her want.  

She treats me right, she treats me like something that likes to live on its knees, she treats me to little glimpses of a better life when I’m down there, serving her on my knees, serving her from the floor.

Nah, love’s not all like that, it’s not all chains and brutal ways of staring at people whose company you really enjoy. Love is a fire, that consumes. Love is a flood, that washes away. Love is an idea sold by greet-card-companies and offspring-propagandists. Love is the bit that gets caught in my teeth when I’m trying to swallow somebody whole.

What I like about her is the way she breaks everything around her. Rules, glass, periods of peace and silence. 

What I like about her is that she likes me.
I don’t know if there’s anything else I can stand about her. 

She treats me to little surprises, her own need to sink in teeth and come away with bits of my memories dripping bloodily from her mouth. 

She throws her arms up into the air, and she rolls her hips like she’s the ocean about to break against the beach. 

Me, I’m a long dirty look from across the way. I’m limping home from spending the night to her, and I’m bleeding apologies onto your floor. You know I’m sorry, why else would I have come back to you, if I wasn’t?

You can see her name still spelled out across me in wounds. You can smell her scent, rubbed raw against my skin. You can see that look in my eyes that says that I can’t tell when I’m lying and when I’m speaking truths.

But I’d give anything, I’d give my whole life-
just to die a little by your hands.

We stole jewellery from the future and taught ourselves to fly. We were dancers, liars, lovers… We were people who thought we could be anything if the moment suited us just right.

My suit was smooth and black and built of a billion incredibly intelligent and always moving, independent organisms. Living creatures, communicating throughs subtle chemical signals and protecting me from all possible harms. 

She’s built out of firecrackers and inner-city smog. She’s darkness and sparkles of light. She’s a shadow full of broken glass, reflecting the lights of the city in her endless deep and imposing eyes.

I’ve always wanted to spend a bit of time with a girl who looked/tasted/smelled/talked like you do. I’ve always wanted to get spoiled with something delicious. I always want so much, and then I get to the party, and I mostly just think about sneaking somewhere off and quiet with you.

I’m waiting for you to type. I’m waiting for you to tell me how you’re feeling, and I’m waiting to take off your clothes again. I’m hoping for a chance to explain some mistakes I made one time; not with you, but just in general. 

We’re talking about using art to get into people’s lives, and specifically their beds. We’re talking about victimizing and violence. We’re using words that suggest of strange sexual energies, and we’re using words on each other. Like we’re using mouths on each other.

I slipped my tongue over you, into you, and you yelled that you wanted more. I could tell you were yelling, not from hearing you, but through the shutters in your body. The way the scream traveled through your skin, the skin I placed myself upon.

We coax each other into each other’s lovers’ proximity. We want to see each other, dancing with whoever we might manage to fall across. We want to be a part of something larger than so much else. Or maybe we just like to watch pretty people fucking in our beds. Maybe all those things are true at the same time. 

Maybe a bunch of things are true when we’re together.

She smiled politely at me. I shook her hand, told her about the nicest ways to kill a man who’d done you no wrong.

She objected but went along anyway. She hurt me just enough to let me know that she could be serious about certain topics, but she also played dead when it suited her to be throw about that way.
Thrown about by fates, you know?

I drip my little injuries, my gouges and ripped out heart, across the carpet, the droplets behind me like a little trail of foot prints. My laughter is like breadcrumbs on the air; little bits of crude matter consumed by the birds that follow my trail.

When she bites me, when the claws go in, when the trap closes on my soft flesh, I feel like it’s all I could’ve ever wanted. I smile and laugh and snarl and rage, with a mouthful of memories and a song like a stab to the centre of the chest.

I want her, or at least, I want her to want me.
I want her to not be sure if she wants to fuck me, or set me on fire.  

She thinks I’m so sexy.

I’ve got a two-day old cereal bowl next to the computer. I smoke, and when I smoke, especially at first, I cough. And when I cough, little grey ghosts of smoke come up, and I spit them out into my old cereal bowl.

I think she’s so fucking sexy.

Sexy little girls bleed all over everything. They can’t help it, it seems. Their naked little bottoms make for rusty Rorschach tests on couch cushions. 

She leaves herself dreaming, so I sneak in through the back of her head and start fucking with the way she’s left things around. I arrange her furniture into subtly suggestive poses, and I leave all her sex-toys out on the coffee table. 

Now she’s stumbling over her strap-ons to make it to tea-time, flogging whips next to the candy dish and lubricating gels sitting dangerously close to the open flame of a lit cigarette. 

She poses, delicately, provocatively, and puts me right on edge; on the edge of the conversation, on the edge of her lips, on the tip of her tongue. 

I’m every awkward phrase balanced on the tip of her tongue. 

Then she giggles, and swallows me down.

I’m so sick of black and white erotica. I want to see all your colours, I want to see all the shades of reality being represented in what’s unfolded across the page.

I want to taste something a bit different; if I wanted the same old thing, I could’ve stayed in the first town I was born in, and just remained there looking for the only things that were already there.

So fuck those images, fuck those simplistically amazing girls and those plainly beautiful boys. Tear down all that shit, and paint something new on the wall. Tear the wall down and built a different sort of supporting structure. 

She comes into the room all naked smooth skin and a need to bite. She wants to be forced down onto her knees, she wants to be lead about on a leash. And I want my hands around her throat, I want my hands around her friends’ throats, I want to just want all day, in great and bloody swaths. 

She suggests that I could stay all night, so I do.