The Shape of My Hands


A mouthful of wine. And another. A few shots, and just like that, she spreads herself and I’m floating somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Her fingers, they taste of Battenberg cake. My tongue. It searches and searches, and when she arches her hips just right, the answers are right there, explicit. Illicit. Juicy like fruit. Like jelly. Raw jelly. The stuff I secretly eat whenever she showers. When she’s done letting me see, I lie on the bed masturbating. She’s smooth and milky. She’s freaky. I suck on her tits and see the death of the dinosaurs. See them shrinking and blinking as the asteroid comes close so close and then as I suck on a lungful of air, the promise of sweet release makes everything okay. She goes back to spreading herself. She’s dirty, but the dirtier she is the more she makes me lose my mind, and the more I lose my mind, the more I see things for how they really are. More shots. Rain on the window. Thunder. Lightning. This rain comes down heavy. It flows back to the source. Her source. Big brown eyes. Nice legs. Smooth smooth smooth. Loose labia. Stretchy. Like elastic in my mouth. Like elastic bands in my childish hands. Rolling a cigarette, the universe shrinks to the size of a marble, and then just like that, it explodes into life once more. Some more wine. Images of animals. Humans as insects, infinitely malleable. Pointless. Countless. She fingers herself with her ass in the air. She grits her teeth wishing so much to conjure a feeling and with it, a vision that takes her closer to God. As her eyes flutter and she dreams impossible dreams, I make shapes with my hands and watch the shadows they cast on the bedroom wall. Birds. Dogs. Reptiles with sticky out tongues. Moving towards them, the images begin to differ from the shape of my hands. With a quickened heart she gasps and shakes the bed, and in no time at all, we plunge into the night like a jumper from the great Golden Bridge.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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