Day six is when I feel constantly on the verge of vomiting and I tell you I no longer want to have sex but can you still come over?
And I reek of yesterday’s uselessness and hope my gut microbiome, a fetor of decaying bacteria making way, also wants my body beautiful without task. See me / but do not touch me / but touch me / but not in that way. For months I craved being desired, and now that I have it, I want the softer, weaker thing. When you boil the herbs, will you put the hot liquid to my cheek, will you come over? Watch me poison myself for clarity, each milligram coaxing all the good out of me. Would you mind my sweat, unsexy, when it is more salt than water? I will try to stomach you without keeping you down. There is always something at the tip of my throat. I am willing to be short-term sick for long-term gratification. Everything is better quick—except that one thing. Bacteria are pack creatures with birdlike swarm, fleeing or flocking, it depends on the medication. When they’re lonely they ostracize until they find kin. Normal people just fuck. I tell my friends I wish I were a stronger person, but instead, I gather all my possessions in two flagellic arms and carry them downstream. I feed off distance, but can you come over? Emotionally I am a peacock, all show, a convoluted kaleidoscope of mucus green, but physically I can swallow. I have not vomited, yet, though I don’t feel any cleaner. Sex is easy, but will you come over and smell the pink of me? Wipe the residue of whatever is left inside? No, no, it’s not like that. The opposite thing: pour me a glass of water. I ask you about your day and you say, I am alone with myself and I am still learning how to be kind with myself when I am alone with myself. Won’t you come over, then? Show me how to be kind.