I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. I will stand with you and we will be alone, static crackling like a television screen across the street of the space between us. The girl thinks this and asks him a riddle of no consequence, conscience laughing in innocence. She says, I won’t tell them you’re here, instead my eyes will carefully close like trapdoors, invisible to the audience with prying ideas.
Now morning will die, taking with it the day, and my thoughts will turn to touch. It’s slightly inescapable. It’s asking, but memory smiles like it means it. My glance is softest gray iron, it only bends under the tips of your fingers.
I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. Inside I am warm, sticky with candied intimacy like a candy apple with the most inviting red. My hands will lift my hair away. My elbows will raise to my sides and I will try to be deft and fail. You will have to help me when I reach the middle of my back. I wonder if you’re willing, if you dream of cinnamon dry lips as well.
~
Does anyone in town have a tri-pod? I woke with a worm today nibbling in my mind, spelling out an Indonesian posture self-portrait set.
Also, don’t type “lemonparty” into google and hit “I’m feeling lucky.”