Rough. This carpet isn’t mine and I know it through my palms.
There’s nothing subtle about my ankles popping. I love so many.
I can feel my oily, red heart. My clammy, cold skin roughing up
an organ’s edge. Sometimes it’s not that I’m too weak to hold.
It’s the holding itself that’s questionable. Reposition. It doesn’t
make sense. Why would I want it to? I’m trying to straighten
my calves but there’s hot sparks up my spine. If I only knew
how the world dizzies itself against the cold back of ether. I told
my friends a joke about the theory of spirit orgies instead of saying
that my heart wants to believe. A beam spreading. An afterlife. It’s not
a joke. I get so lightheaded from orgasm that I could pass out sharp.
Little charms of darkness, a mobile sphynx. I’m turning my wings
outward, trying to catch the air that refuses my lungs. I’m desperate
for a feeling that’s easy to reach, impossible to transmute.