Work Text:
Scar, the rind of love-making citrus, the embryonic ridges of sick, curdled flesh, curdled by scalpel, by veterinary disregard, by citrus, at the spot where we became him and i, me and he, one and another, and the curve of agony’s one separate waist, an agonizing inch, agonizing as a mile, frozen in the amber space between, split between, caressed by twenty fingers, made ten plus ten, eight limbs, made four plus four, four eyes, made two plus two, two waists, made one plus one, at seven, then seven plus seven, then seventeen.
Seventeen, sweet seventeen, angel number, age of the evil eye, of sex, of seeing a girl our age walk under a bridge and wait, a girl we knew, had touched, had pretended we would kiss, would kiss for, might even have compensated, made love to, in two other lives, if we could become ten plus ten, four plus four, two plus two, one plus one, or else turn away, turn blue into pink, turn pink into blue, turn boy into bird, turn boy into girl, turn into girls, because she was me and he, no we, twenty eight four two, twin and a half, and we turned away from her, and decided not to see, and washed pink and blue and bird down the bathtub.
Bathtub, acts of incest, acts of sodomy, acts of masturbation, the bad faith question answered, without mirth, without jokes, and observed by little girls sulking in long skirts, to be boys, at seven plus seven, with the dead gendered eyes of my girl, no our girl, no our boy, outside of virginity, never virgins, always this thing instead, in the bathtub, becoming the spider, four arms, four legs, two backs, scars apart together, the spider i had killed, or thought i killed, whichever i was, naked as one-half, alone is two bad words, under the hot hell faucet, but switched to baths, the womb for two, and laughed, about people, who feel so very lonely, their only desire, is that corner of porcelain, with two backs, two waists, its wasted spider stain.
Stain, and stained, staining, like rotting fruits, one on the vine, and at the waist, and blurring, and basketless, basket cases, a little womb music, for perverts, girl perverts, in bathtubs, in pretty rows, their eyes dead and their socks pink, or blue, or one of us, the difference between, poured into a thimble, swallowed down, mouthwashed with, and spat again, in distaste, in missingness, i saw myself, as one self, and flinched from him, and crawled inside, to we, to twenty, to eight, to four, to two, to now, forever, the scar.