chemsex for a higher purpose

Oblivion has been off-limits for a very long time. I want veins full of black tar heroin, the kind I used to buy from that guy off Saticoy, the kind he kept in his sock and only gave me once we were in his gated community. Private property. Beige metal gates. I want to be on top of soft lavender sheets or a raw mattress, and I want to be fucked, and fucked, and fucked. I want veins full of heroin* warm rhythmic cosmic agony I want to not know who is inside of you– someone else can be the anonymous whore. I want every person filling me come to know the name my parents gave me. too much x too much arrhythmic, chaotic eyes wandering the ceiling I want to not know where I am, who I am, or why I am. someone please just touch me *or a body filled with cocaine, ketamine, etizolam, Valium, Percocet, Johnny Walker Black Label, Absolut Apeach i am the naked wolfbitch/ narco-nymphette. girls like me melt into alumina. girls like me learn to lie. girls like me are knee-weak beneath my teeth. gleaming cumshot-white underneath a trembling spotlight a war like a dance / cathedrals painted black the grocery list of nightmares, twofold. the eyelid of a day badly lived, night of countless tits and a single bloody mouth. snare my alienated attention, why? with all these immanent earthquakes that rivet my frame and cause my muscles to contract, the stress of having to warp your own gravity, score your own points. the wrenching tedium of landing one foot in front of the other when logic itself is a drawn-out mystery, another joke you’ve only overheard, eavesdropping on telegraphing dreams. i used to get my metaphysical jollies rubbing up against some architectonic System, but only now i do realize nothing takes the edge of the problem of existing–because that problem has a name, and that name is me, and you can’t take that edge off because baby i’m all edge. (the monster’s snuggled in the covers, i’m hiding under the bed, all is right with the world.) there really is no end in sight. it’s true that with death just come new eyes. see same forever. eternity needs a transplant: it’s my body but it’s my call. it’s the same as always. wish my voice out; for something to rise and say, tired, complete! uttered yet fantastic but no we’re slated in the third grade Published in 2020 by Pink Plastic House.