Member-only story
tender as you are vigilant without
burying the warmth of your
lover’s lips in
a bin of empty cans, in
the bungled sale of your
over-ripe organs to
whoever really
owns the wood and
votes for whatever
fist will bang the
wisdom of arriving
early and staying late. come
search my bed which
reeks of saline petrichor and
costs me in limbs and
is heated by slow-burning
card stock where a little
flame hisses through the letters
take him from us, he
does what he’s told. come
ask me if i ever knowed
the difference between
right and fair or if
i’ve been guessing at how
to get you off. come
smoke me til you
wheeze, til i am
soot coating your lungs,
til we are higher, finally, than
this relic of a dream when
love was to stay and
not to know.
