IT’S THE BODY OF A WOMAN
Tuck that shit in because you might have to use it (you don’t want to use it so act like you do). Hand in pocket, fingers bulging out to the side like there is something to prove so act like you’ve proved it. To a shadow (there is nobody behind you and there never has been), except for now so whip around: find nothing. Do you feel disappointed? That they weren’t nestled up to you close? Breath crawling down your left shoulder how they did in your dream or when he was really very angry and a fist was right by you while you hid in the cushion, foot weighed on your neck. Calling in that he’s changed now, don’t worry, and you’ve seen it yourself in the way that he grins. Wide. Probably means it. And your hand grips even tighter on the blade you just bought because you remembered the one that he bought you that Christmas. Cheap, from a gas station door, “I remember the first blade that my father gave me”. Of course now you know the idea only struck him just then.
HER NUDE FORM SUPERIMPOSED OVER EVERYTHING, EVEN THIS
Like it’s striking you now (don’t dodge left when I’m thrusting) that it feels very heavy. Will the point hold up true? You have no way of knowing except that the man thought when he sold it “it does not seem like he’s done this before” and the breath has come back, on your right shoulder now and you hope it’s a dog that doesn’t mind being bit or that veins are collapsing and capillaries blowing out in a fired titanium fountain of does this always happen? Does anything happen after you sink that shit in? And it’s nothing. And it’s warm. And it’s friendly. And thin. It’s my face grinning behind you, thank you for sticking it in.
HER CHEEK IS VEILED BY HAZEL CURLS
— Cesar Felipe is a data scientist in DC. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net, and been published by (among others) the Washington Writer’s Publishing House, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, and Metachrosis Magazine. More at https://cesarfelipe.substack.com/ and @seizuremeans.