from statues with interior arms
A non-articulable gender is articulating itself. As an interior arm. As an arm that engages an always inward trajectory. As so many consecutive afternoons of impending. Each distinct ray as it succincts the array. Liquid light or masses of manic measuring that lean in order to learn how to be other-than our own every.
A population where tears are prized. Tears as a way of staring. Or tumbling wounds into glass. Composing for the sake of an eventual we. For the sake of uttering false-less-ness. Can a wound that has been turned to glass ever again be wounded?
In the dream I was rubbing your throbbing clit and as I rubbed, it kept getting bigger. You were exhibiting those fibrous, red infusions on your neck. Your sex was processual thickening. Here, I knew algae’s feelings about the sea. I knew your clit was transforming into. A dick? You wanted me to name you there. Amidst the most exquisite emissions all over our bodies. I remember feeling sure like lisping compotes fully taken in. Like water having being enigmatically flavored with pine.
| j/j hastain |
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