this was much harder to write than I thought it would be

your fashionable whore
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

Hair like clutching moss today, skin and energy slathered in exhaustion, I feel like I need to either sleep a week or force myself to run a marathon. Sasko asked where my beautiful man was, summoning a moment of all the electric chair ease I’m carrying from yesterday’s dream of the airport. Suddenly the full power of my newly absent desire clawed into my chest. After I caught my breath, pasted a half-lie of a smile on, I told him in return about how my last trip to L.A. was a disaster.

Walking into Compton, religious zealots, being kidnapped. A TV movie with no budget. I can’t help but picture him there, my strange and beautiful kindness, somewhere, graceful, smiling. Not the city, but the beach and an apartment I have never seen. Rolling out of bed to look the morning in the eye. Fishing in the sleeve of the yukata for a package or a lighter.

Yesterday he gave me money for a taxi back to the city, but I couldn’t think of anywhere I wanted to go, so I purchased a new ten dollar pocket watch instead to get change for the bus and watched as the minutes ticked past to his take-off.

Now I’m filling my days with make-busy tasks, as if my week were a small bottle to fill with the blood of a murder victim. When a chirping is heard, I’ll know I’ll have conjured my demon heart successfully. Usually invisible, she must be fed blood from my fingertips every day and in exchange, she will cause madness in whomever I desire. Enter writing, creativity, creation.

Or so I hear.