I prefer life when walked like fingertips; I find them delicate and unnerving—nerve endings questioning what is real and what is not. I prefer life kissing you, locomotives churning the coal in the engine of my throat like dust on railings, the hardened staircases of college apartments, plaster, glassiness like fish eyeballs, scaly wetness leading me into the night, leading her into my arms. I am always the devil on the shoulder. I can’t resist curls, fallen ringlets like tears upon my shoulders, brown eyes are like dunes, emptying sand particles into the wastes of discontented hands meeting insecure hips, storing the fat upon my sides, hiding behind tattooed masks, the feelings always, always, in ink.



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