this is what killed Tasha Yar,
what inspired Nietzche
to write all those sonnets.
the slick, inkiness, spreading itself thin
in between my legs, around my neck.
it stretches enough to let your lungs work,
it adheres to each contour and shows off
every imperfection perfectly.
this beats cling film any day.
i stare at it for minutes, lightly
passing my fingers over it
again and again.
i imagine myself preserved
underneath stone focusing
spiritual energy into space.
i want its unyielding authority,
i crave its surface tension,
i want to feel as though i am the sexiest Darth Vader.
i think about the horse people
who attended the convention,
expecting to be accepted
and only finding themselves.
i wanted to touch them without sarcasm,
to hold their straws still during a conversation
that would fascinate me to no end.
instead,
i watched people
circle the meatballs
because they are free.
imagine how beautiful we would be
preserved,
vacuum-packed for freshness,
smirking knowingly at every groper.
tucking that thought away,
bookmarking that page,
for when my disposable income
surpasses my common sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment