not i

she ran her fingernails down the brittle glass of my soul because she liked to watch it flake away, the whatever flakes of my being gathering like so much fake snow in the bottom of my snow globe form, she was like a cat and my spine was her scratching post and when she finished she would turn me upside down and shake me

winter as seen at the edge of mourning

all i could do was blink rapidly to try and clear the blizzard from my vision, wait until the water settled from the inevitable whirlpool vortex of barely existing dissipated in the center of the dwarf star that was me and watch in dismay as she smiled and ran an emory board over her talon like nails

we play musical landmines in the afternoon

fresh from hibernating the ill effects of her hostile holistic remedies, sweating out the poisons and artificial preservatives that soak into the very pores from the lead lined life preserver she painstaking secures my insecurities to every evening before i sleep and she galavants out into the night

she flies low, black against the black of the sky

i lay nude on the floor while she paints with absinthe and hydrofluoric acid on my chest and thighs, carving and reimagining the carnal reality of me and repurposing the quivering muscle into the vestiges of her modern ideal of beauty as seen through the eyes of dementia and passive aggressive ignorance

i hang from the hooks screwed into the closet door

she runs filaments into my marrow and siphons out platelets into tubes and vials via electrical impulse, every spasm a new realm of torturous delight, igniting the dark room in a flurry of pulsating pigmented flares, the delight in her eyes sends radial blossoms of pleasure as bone cracks and joints rupture

clapping along to my solo rendition of saint vitus dance

this autonomous parasitic love we share defies common convention, as she doles out pain by the yard i seek the comfort of her every flailing lash, my passion grows as her need dwindles, as the needles tubing drains my glands in lessening drops onto her eagerly waiting tongue, my gray pallor pales before her boredom, and my parchment like skin tears with her callous disregard

is this love, who can define something that defies definition

not i

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