Not it

Choked on emotion, his bity beads bubble to a waxen brim. They package against a poignant paste slathered over any speckle of color. He breaks. A wall of silica droops down unsullied skin, toxifying a collection of clean holes with sweated selflessness. My blank cubes gawk. Slurp, glurp, slurp — my pores suckle in the wasted fruits of entangled intimacy. Poor him. I know that it’s not it. This isn’t it. Whatever it is. We’re surmountable. Dead of the assumed cataclysm that would absorb my impending impeachment. My shell isn’t rattled; it’s pet — with strokes as asinine as charlatan creates against a silly kitty. Each gist of the gesture builds upon an anticipating ego. The ends spike in worth. They stand straight; they stand confident. He strokes me. I need him; but he’s not mine. He’s not made to be mine. How deep does deception sink into the sweat shared between the coarse rubbing of what is separate? Perhaps this exists as part of the process of fully fledging into a limbed being. We’re cyclical. Pattern after pattern. Standing strand poking one visitor after the other, leaving a bed of manufactured grass fluttering in an exchange of grazing arms.

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