Above Each Other

He's the character of man who thinks himself kind and generous until it's all that he is— a gentle touch, a loving caress. Prick and squeeze, penetrate and hug. A single finger. Or sometimes, cuddle then fool around with needles. He was not my Adam, but I was willing to share. Pushing palms down my legs, he feels the bumps and rolling of my muscles where they'll bruise and prickle with scabs. Like mountains and valleys, or skin cells and the empty places filled with electrons. A naked goose on a table readying to be ready to serve. The flames burn like Hell: my own hell for my sins of the flesh, of the white blood cell, of the ivory lace of virgins. I've been undercooked for years now, my skin too white for my blood. I made myself this way by the path of my veins leading to the core of my body, pooling liquid next to my liver. He made me this way, but he is good. I am good, outliving my purpose with muttered words from someone else, as I stop my organs and my organs have stopped my mouth from working over the mesas and rivers. I look out over the table with pure, hazel eyes. I can see white wine, pale bread, wan fish that I have refused to eat with my hands and tingling fingers. I curl my toes and rip flesh. At the point where my sockets are blind and reach out with nodes of pulsing fever, as they're meant to see, I care enough to shake under his fist and stare. I was supposed to see him, when the final moment came, but I blind myself with faith in a lover who fakes sleep as He removes my unborn children one by one. I dull forever in the 21st century.