I feel incurably ill-fitting,
The tension settles comfortably across the overstuffed seats and against my sternum.
I would sleep with her right now, just to have something to do with my hands
Sometimes it feels a lot like killing someone, the way they hold on, gasp and writhe, the final fall of contented rest. When I watch the way the eyes roll, the fighting against nature, I feel like I’m taking something from them, exorcising them. Leaving them a little less and a little more.
In French, of course, the Little Death. Is my part, then, the Little Homicide?
After, I often lay in awe. How do I know the difference between what it feels like to be God or Death? A fearful creator or a reverent vehicle of entropy?
I’ve become so soft you could dig your fingers into me, draw out my segments like a fruit. I’m overdue for feeling something I’ve been putting off. It crawls up my throat like vomit.
