Wednesday, August 17, 2011


fifteen stories above the street you scuttle along, invisible in the wallpaper's dry cracks or the underside of the plush donald trump mattress. when you find me in the darkness you gently ease yourself onto my flesh to probe and puncture and thirstily sip my blood. you are driven to become satiated, swollen red and satisfyingly engorged, full to bursting like some sort of minuscule balloon, hideous and pulsing red. we are not dissimilar, you and i—i feel the same way after urgently devouring a huge thanksgiving dinner. i googled you and got just the facts, ma'am; i know the truth. you and your kin have lived at one time or another in every hotel in nyc and i hear you now in this one as you back off my ear and tentatively seek my neck.

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