A fever has overtaken my addled mind. My flushed skin feels tight, stretched, too small. In the mirror I see a reflection of a woman, but it’s as if through another set of eyes. I am a stranger within my own flesh. It wasn’t always this way.
It’s like I am sitting beside myself, and the other me is occasionally breathed back through the nostrils in my eye. I feel fuzzy in the head, and then calm and am not sure about what I just said. I’m but a shard of man, aching bitter-sad. Teddy bears haunt my eyes, but it’s the jackals that have my cock. He’s the man I’ve always known. He’s the man who sits alone.
I met him one rainy September night, outside a bar in Tennessee. His black jeans and skin-tight black t-shirt and black spiky hair…. mmmmm, yeah, I was already a goner. He eyes flashed bright for a moment as he asked if he could buy me a drink and I didn’t say no. One drink, we told each other lies. Two, he touched my arm as I laughed. Three, I leaned in for a kiss. Before we got to four, I took him back to my place. Kissing my neck as I unlocked the door, pulling him inside quickly, he lifted me up and fucked me against my front door.
She kisses me like I’m me but her eyes caution she’s wound in vulgar snap, of Apollo’s clasp. We bludgeon her front door with the bulk of our mysteries, darting in and out of each other’s eye cavities in frantic search pulse, a string, tied to a balloon of melancholy waiting to be burst – as my dick excreted its worst into her numbing grotto. It was great.
The rest of the night we spent in various compromising positions. It was incredible as he met me quite perfectly as a lover. For a night. There were moments when his voice would alter in pitch and he’d be calling out in tongues. I ate it up as he fucked me hard. The following morning was almost domestic as we made breakfast together and giggled about some of the funnier moments from the last 16 hours. We kissed at the door, he bit my lip until I bled, I moaned in his mouth and waved him goodbye. He went his way and I went mine. It was a good fuck.
Stupid jokes. I had to listen to her cackle like some breed of haughty witch as she whirled her coffee to frothy cloud of debasement, only second floor version. I knew, as I wafted through the door, that her thoughts of me were dim and that every last flicker was devoured by that chiseled, brainless shit she called me.
While I kept remembering his hands on my body from the previous night, still imagine my surprise when he showed up at the bar again that night, pushing his way between me and another patron at the bar. He pecked me on the cheek familiarly. ‘What are you doing?!’ I sputtered. Didn’t he understand how this works?? Apparently not. His dark eyes went luminous as I spent the next 45 minutes trying to convince him we were only good for the one night before finally giving up, paying my tab, and heading home.
Wow, how her eyes bloomed wide when I made my way into the bar. So pleased to see me, she waltzed back to allow me the space to spread. Her face lost a few shades as her lech for me drained into the sockets of her bloodshot bulbs. This wasn’t the spit of chance. The seed was lit.
Not thirty minutes passed before he was once more at my front door. I stepped out to put an end to “this” once and for all. His piercing words chilled me. I will devour you, bite by bite, inside out. But at least he left. My lip started bleeding again. The following morning, I felt a little sick and stayed home instead of going out. A week later, the fever arrived. I kept seeing glances of him out of the corner of my eye. His fingers trailing across my heated flesh. And a feeling of me not being my own self within my skin: what had he done to me?
The seer grabbed her by the wrists, and said “sit”, so she did. As lass looked down at her tapping toes she didn’t quite know what boiled from below, so she slowed, a bit. The crimson leaves swayed from torching this trees in the deep of her pit. Now aglow, from the man she cared not to know, and now, as she drooled ash, she felt it.
I regretted not getting his number. Or knowing his last name even. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. My skin became dry and itchy, heated from within. Scabbed over scratches across my body. Days and nights filled with longing. I kept my curtains closed and pulled them aside periodically just to see if perhaps he stood out there for me. My belly began to swell, my brain separated, and I began to listen to a new voice instead.
Anthony Gorman & tara caribou | ©2018-2021
Writing with Anthony was curiously entrancing. His dark, provocative style worked incredible images in my mind. He has a way of looking at things sideways and perhaps through a mirror. Maybe a bit like Picasso. Check him out over at hands in the garden.
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