victor has his fingers to my stomach in the shape of a gun, whispering “murder” over and over. funny that i made it a man.
your fingers to my stomach in the shape of a gun. it’s not enough to think about it, and yet i’d have to hide my face if you ever put your hands around my waist. didn’t know i was into having my wrists held until you stopped me from tickling you.
something changed under the surface. in the part of head that’s actually in my throat. can we mind-fuck?
looking through the crack in my door. you ask if i want to talk about it. i say i want to sleep, and talking keeps me awake. you say talking could put it to bed and i say nothing.
my heart and my lungs are fragile. thought of you stopping my head, turning my face towards you, the intention, of meaning to kiss me. for a moment the hole in my chest was gone. there’s that line, about having a god-shaped hole and it being infected. this time, tonight, there’s a gouge in my chest, right around or below my sternum, and it’s letting all the cold air in. makes it hard to fall asleep.
you ask if i’m okay through the closed door. i understand that you love me and you don’t mind waiting.
it takes until my chest is dully aching and my stomach burning for me to admit i’m awake. kissing you feels like resurfacing. something is wrong in my body. so i go out into the hallway. i squint in the light. in the mirror, i meet your eyes, and you’re smiling.