I’m unwashed and unkempt, but you take it just the same. The smell emanating from my sex reminds me of smoky bacon crisps. Most likely Walkers. In America, you call them Lay’s. Is this good or bad? I’m not sure, but you don’t seem to bat an eye. My dreams concern spiders. Spiders in the dead of night that scuttle on the floor and spiders that crawl along the insides of your thighs as I watch like a child at the foot of the bed. I’m nervous as to what will follow. Will you devour me? Will you squash me like I’ve squashed them my entire life? As I take a piss while looking out the window, the streets dissolve, and all that’s left is your song. Your song is beautiful, and despite my best attempts to soil it, the melody is as sincere as it’s always been. The song you sing, and the song I sing, so different yet the same. You bring out the worst of me and the best of me in the same breath. You keep me awake all through the night and give me nothing but superstition and bellyache. Your eyes on mine. Your fingers on my throat as I pretend to be tired when all I want is to have you. But this control you have over me. This power you exert by simply being. It makes me angry, and it makes me hard. It makes me nervous, and it makes me sad. And sadness is the key- it’s the portal that links are crushed hearts. There’s paint on my fingers. I spread it on your lips. I put it on your tongue and make you swallow. This creation- this web that holds us- may it make us who we desire to be without the need for excuses that do nothing but stifle our love.