You are wiry and I am just wired, fuses tied to bombs in my stomach to flatten Calcutta but tonight they decimate this distance we’ve established between our appendages for appearances sake. I like the way you run your fingers through my hair when you assure me your girlfriend won’t mind and your moaning tells me my hipbones have the perfect location. We will be fodder for tabloids, a story told only over ale but right now this is enough.

From the collection “Ladykilled and Manhandled”

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