Trigger up: Foment


Trigger warning for rough sex.

I have your skin between my teeth, not dripping blood, just epithelial cells locked to my incisors after our last coupling.
There are 12 dollars in my wallet, a five spot and ones crumpled together in mutual disrespect. Three earmarked for coffee, the others’ fates undecided.
Your hands are in your pockets at home, but your scent is on me. I lift my palms to my face and breathe deep. Yeast. How is it that you always smell of fermentation? You must have an excess of micro flora dwelling in the damp creases of your body, cultured in the cleft of your ass and the curved underside of your belly. Even your piss-slit, sticky-sweet barm like cheap beer.
The bus heaves itself to the curb and I clonk aboard, swiping my pass. beep. The reader shows: “LOW VALUE $1.25”. Guess I’ll be walking the rest of the day. Stupid knee.
Tomorrow I can go to the bank, withdraw $150, and flirt with Suri. Does she like me? It’s hard to tell. She remembers things, though. In the year and a half that I have been living in this neighbourhood and frequenting her branch we have uncovered various facts about one another. 1) Like the postal service, I ride my bike in rain or sleet or snow. 2) Suri used to drive her scooter everywhere, but crashed it on the tracks downtown and hurt her shoulder. 3) I am obviously queer,  she is probably queer but (I assume) dating a boy. 4) In an effort to deter the notion I am stalking her, I attempt to spread my transactions to other branches when I can. 5) Her hair and nails change, but never her make-up, unadorned with exception of the gloss on her thin lips. She could stand to drink more water so that the flesh at her mouth would fill out and cease to flake. I think I make her nervous, but maybe I’m projecting.
Tomorrow is two stops away, tomorrow is tomorrow and it will never arrive.
My temple hits the cold glass of the window at an offbeat tempo as the bus rattles along on broken pavement.
I love you, of course, but it’s distracted. Snapshots placed in a masturbatory album: teeth on the neck, spine arched, thumb nudging the pursed lips of your asshole (you should drink more water, perhaps it would plump faster).
Is it normal? I don’t want to build a life with you, I want to distil you into broth, consume the marrow of your bones, make scrapple from your slurry.
I must be talking to myself again, the woman in front of me peers back over her shoulder, incredulous. Excuse me, miss?
Just rehearsing, I say, as if any normal person would be rehearsing such lines, would have lines like these, would be on the bus rehearsing these lines.
It’s my stop but I haven’t pulled the cord, though the woman in front of me has. I wish I had so she could correct herself. Thank you, sir. Sir. It’s the one thing I can get you to call me. You don’t call me by name, you refuse to call me daddy, but you will call me sir. It’s a good intermediary, toeing the line between mocking and respect, the way we do.
Off the bus I miss a step and stumble, catch my boots goofy-footed on the pavement, jarring my back. It’s raining. It’s always raining, it’s almost March and every day in March there will be rain. The National Weather Service promises floods. Me too.
I promise to drench everything if you thrust me down on my stomach, knee to my crotch, not nibbling but assaulting my ear. I think I might bleed or go deaf by the time you’ve done with me, but the sensation is too heady for me to care. I’ll worry about it in the morning if the cartilage has torn, stitch it together with dental floss and an embroidery needle.

-Fleshdrawn rite.
-M.I.A. lyrics: I’m hot now you‘ll see / I’ll fight you just to get peace / Heavy Weight Wrestler / Fight me in your comforter / Let you be superior / I’m filthy with the fury ya


One Response to “Trigger up: Foment”

  1. […] writing (for me) is usually a garbage in, garbage out kind of process, which means if i wanna be writing poems, essays, literary short stories, etc, i better be reading them. despite all that, i just started re-reading the Tapscott translation of Pablo Neruda’s Cien sonetos de amor, and somehow the beginnings of what an utterly bizarre but hopefully successful short story fell off the truck of my keyboard (here’s a draft). […]

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