His grip is an absence. You feel the crease from thumb to point and his nails like a bear trap snapped shut on your knee. But his body is no man’s land. His wrapping paper skin is stretched too thin, creased by cheekbones and torn at the mouth. Lips pucker like a fish on land, kissing the air and tasting nothing but nothing. It’s the pills. They make him numb.
They make you feel every ridge of the night. It’s all angles, up against your back, deadweight on your spine and the vertebras crushing in on each other. And his grip on your knee,
a pin in a butterfly.
They make you feel every ridge of the night. It’s all angles, up against your back, deadweight on your spine and the vertebras crushing in on each other. And his grip on your knee,
a pin in a butterfly.