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Cardiac cannibalism, Spaghetti knots


and then there he is in the middle of the sun that could’ve made for a beautiful day if he wasn’t in front of it and could’ve spread singly into a beautiful flower behind me if i weren’t there either, telling me as a gentleman would how he fucked my girlfriend in shaky, full arms that once held me, warmed me, made me grow. he tells me how he only has the utmost respect for me. he says that i deserved to know, though he was sorry it had happened so late. he smiles. shakes my hand. and i thank him, maybe not knowing what to do or maybe being too busy not being and thinking about that flower that is resting in my shade or maybe how this relentless, raw sun shined on his nose, a soft nose that certainly couldn’t take a punch, a punch i hadn’t given in a while because i was happy and good and deeply in love with the peace and pieces of her that must’ve held that nose that would bleed brutally and ooze little, useless chunks of him under my violence, red matter that would seep into his big, total lips that would make him taste himself again just like the kiss with her where he’d eventually seep into her, saliva slowly digesting her gums for it knows no better, cannibalizing her, cooking her, and eating him too with its indiscretion for social, societal customs like when he’d lick the leak and maybe become rejuvenated by the spring of him, ya, like a mother drinking the placenta to be reborn, ya, and he’d kick and scream and fight against the world and the rose-coloured sun like a newborn, ya, and i’d be the hands in front, the endless, dark, cold corpse that would hold him tightly while he swung and scrummed back, ya, and close, closer, closed, i’d see if he felt like struggling, strangled her, ya, if he had melted into her, dripped in, moulted into her with hairs and hearts and humps, the raw red still weeping onto me like a cherry freezie in this sun, ya, and he would unstick to kick me in the balls with arms limb and constricted, ya, and i’d buckle, another knee to the face following, me mad and unmade for there she comes again dressed in the darkness that becomes where he’d stand atop of me and pound pounce pour him, angry, sad, happy him, years and moments of him i did not know, would never know, couldn’t know for i am not her and i am unseen and i am blind too, having looked into the sun too long.

he asks if we are okay. i say of course. i thank him once more for giving me what no one else ever did.

i step on the flower as i leave.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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