I dreamt of you, again. It’s been years, but in my sleep I
recalled every feature of your fine pale face, and the guttural tone
of your voice. I could smell you;
I held my breath against the scent of menthol ciggies and
gin and tonic sticking to your saliva.
I spent the night with your phantom
banging around inside my head. Now that I’m awake, I
convince myself all over that I hate your pretty fucking being,
because you’re interesting to look at, vivid red like a piece of exotic fruit.
I want to split you open and see your insides, have a taste of your heart. I
want to do this even knowing the stingy itch of your spines.
© 2019 Kindra M. Austin