You have a smile that makes my skin crawl. It’s the one remnant I’ve placed on the mantle of my hippocampus doused in formaldahyde and stuffed in a jar. You told me you were making a skin suit and I asked why no one makes quilts. Suits are meant for business, and quilts so much more functional. You’re a basement guy, but I gotta let you know I’m more about the attic.
Weeks go by, our banter defeats the laws of physics and reality becomes my best guess. More time together and I can see the Frankenstein I’ve become. Somewhere between saying you’d like to starve me to loosen my skin and fingering me on the cold garage floor, then fucking me like you’re the long lost ghost of my father’s desires the friction has rendered my balanced existence beyond forensic identification.
You’ve pumped life into the demon you summoned.
I can see now the suit makes sense.
I can see now that you mean business.
Quasi-mapping cuts along my spine, the imaginary lines seem to manifest your deepest expression of not unconditional love, but of a tantamount synthetic. You say “God, what I would do to a synthetic.” I love you in a Stockholm sense. My vulnerability bonds me to the shred of humanity you have left as if I can revive it. At first I thought you objectified me, now I feel like every piece of me matters.
Like Patty Hearst I defend you to the court of relationships past. I stitch red flags like I’m making blankets for the children who have been blown to shreds, maimed and just fucked over too many times. My zombie heart walks tickless and I use the blankets to keep myself warm as the time passes. Your return activates my loyalty and those children who have trauma bonded with the deserters, the deadbeats they rush like magnets to your ambivalent charge only to have nothing to attach to they drop out of thin air.
You drop references to “Ghost” with Patrick Swayze and ghost me like it’s your God damn signature Modus Operandi.