Bloody Little Mouth (audio)

Read the last page first so you can hold your own hand through the rest. That’s what I do when I am afraid but try not to show it.

I like her fangs and the way her lips curl when she’s feeling frisky. And she’s always feeling frisky. Slinking around like a black cat slithers through your crossed legs. Static-y shrieks in that tiny bloody little mouth. She laps at my milk and our tongues turn rose pink.

I’ve taken a bottle of wine from the shelf and poured a glass for each of us. Please stay. Please stay and have a drink with me. Tell me your stories and I’ll tell you mine. Let’s play a game. I’ll whisper three secrets into your ear. See if you can guess which one is true. Spin the bottle. Kiss the girl kiss the boy kiss until you know what you want to taste like.

You never know what’s gonna light people up inside. What will compel them to stick around or head for the hills. When he kisses me I get distracted by the bright white light of the moon. I imagine a large dark bird, hunched there heavy, high on a wire. Two wide beady black eyes watching us.

Not everything has to make sense. Not everything has to mean anything at all really. I’m so tired of connecting dots when the dots were all laid out by fools to begin with. This plus this plus this equals happiness until all of a sudden it doesn’t. Until one day addition, subtraction, basic rules of mathematics and reason no longer apply.

He’s got a warped sense of humor and a sadistic need to control, manipulate, destroy. You aren’t sure why you ever liked it to begin with but now the net has closed in all around you. Reach for the sword, reach for the blinders. Reach for the gun. We forget the rope is only draped about the neck, the rope is only loose at the wrists. The doors aren’t even locked and here you are quivering, scared to death to reach for the goddamn knob, which swirls and swirls like smoke inside a marble rolling down the stairs.

Let’s have more wine. Let’s finish it all off and fuck until the world ends or we do, either or. Never date a writer they are exhausting. They can talk you into or out of anything without ever stating their ultimate aim. They can sit still for hours without ever stopping their motherfucking running.

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