It was weird. Like maybe the altitude makes that happen. Severs dead things. Game overs them.
Picking my nose is ineffectual now.
They are all square , dirty and masculine.
Trigger Warning: Gross things ahead.
Blood moves easy up here. There is new blood in my nose. My wounds bleed like they are children called to recess. My pussy is a faucet of blood. I want to hover over a porcelain bowl. I want to see it flow. Splatter. Red bossing the white.
Ever masturbated around a person? Kept things steady so another wouldn’t know? Licked fingers just enough to avoid that wet smacking sound? What about three people? I’ve had bad thoughts lately. Sometimes they come at night. After you look for a bear. After you need a scenario to bring sleep close enough so you can succumb. There is a beauty in silent pleasure. Gasping open-mouthed into a hot-roomed night, everything tasting metal, a swollen heat. Heartbeat hurting.
I’ve bled out into two pairs of underpants. A pair of shorts. Has the air thinned its clot?
Make it stop.
What does altitude do? Does it make things feel more real? Does it bring everything closer? Does it draw things from my body so easily? Candy promises that make them eager to leave?
There is a clarity brewing like sobriety
She is a blood-sunrise you see while alone. There is no way to explain, in words, that would make anyone else understand the beauty witnessed. What it did to you as it happened. What it still does to you now. How you carry it with you in the marrow of every day, shaking you rag doll until the baby’s neck breaks.
I’ve never known anything like this and it’s a treasure.