March of the Flies



Split lip. Blood on my teeth. A forest that spreads like her legs on fresh linen as the animals wave hello from deep within. Smooth skin. Small ankles. Wine and trees and foxes and owls that howl and toot as we merge beneath grasping branches. Brunette. Blond. Tingling toes and eyes that search for signs of what should come next. In a taxi downtown, we shoot past some slum kid having his fingers cut off. One by one his attackers place those pinkies on the ground ready for the blade until they slice away. In the streets that exist on the edge of existence, faces are peeled like the clothes that fall from our bones while drunk and full of devilry. In the darkly hours when we lose ourselves to instinct, the nature of what we are is laid bare. It can be love, and it can be violence. If we’re lucky, it can be both.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on 

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