Mutilations in Kind

In the archives. In the true back of her head she knew there was a page. Words scratched into the paper by an empty pen. Welts dug deep into the thighs of darkness. Through the veil of its pantyhose. Through the spark of its willing cunt. She lobbed her trivias at the glass in easy knuckle balls. And began preparing for the swing.

In poorly cut diamonds the moment shopped. In clumsily sewn pants the moments sobbed. The slow blink of funerals turning the pavement soft under foot.

In cliches we debated the validity of my disease. The crying clown painting depression flaunted suspect at best. In little lies we wagered. Throwing of money away on those slot machines we call friends. The liar and the lover being the same.

Confident as a severed head. In the slow circumcision he called his love.