Sub
It’s in an echoing empty pool, perhaps; or it’s sacrifices in bathtubs and gin-stained linen — I don’t know. It’s often wet. Or my hair wrapped around his steering wheel, my pupils blown out the size of gunshot holes, and I shed my skin and it sits in the back seat, unfamiliarising itself with his hands. And numbness blossoms up my thighs, around my hips like a crown.
I guess I always slope towards him, no matter how level the ground.
It’s hard that way. How our distance is a slur, unfair. How in the future he holds my head down in the river until the bubbles stop, but at least before that I have an excuse to touch and grab — his broad knuckles and long fingers wound against my scalp, his exhalation smoky in the winter air. But my fists stop forming after a while in the cold and I can’t grasp him; his rings too wet with blood, my hands illiterate as loam.
In the place where the water knows me as soon as I go under, and we reflect each other, when I go silent from him it’s a quiet afternoon in childhood, grey-blue, cursed with an early moon. And when he jerks my head back up I sputter like a rain-stained roof, and the river holds me like he promised and it even knows my name.
He tells me he loves me and it speaks to my affinity for point-blank range.
It’s in an echoing empty pool, perhaps; or it’s sacrifices in bathtubs and gin-stained linen — I don’t know. It’s often wet. Or my hair wrapped around his steering wheel, my pupils blown out the size of gunshot holes, and I shed my skin and it sits in the back seat, unfamiliarising itself with his hands. And numbness blossoms up my thighs, around my hips like a crown.
I guess I always slope towards him, no matter how level the ground.
It’s hard that way. How our distance is a slur, unfair. How in the future he holds my head down in the river until the bubbles stop, but at least before that I have an excuse to touch and grab — his broad knuckles and long fingers wound against my scalp, his exhalation smoky in the winter air. But my fists stop forming after a while in the cold and I can’t grasp him; his rings too wet with blood, my hands illiterate as loam.
In the place where the water knows me as soon as I go under, and we reflect each other, when I go silent from him it’s a quiet afternoon in childhood, grey-blue, cursed with an early moon. And when he jerks my head back up I sputter like a rain-stained roof, and the river holds me like he promised and it even knows my name.
He tells me he loves me and it speaks to my affinity for point-blank range.