InCumBent

Mommy says daddy had addictions to sexy things as I lick cold frost off forked dessert. Her questions are pointed, she demands honesty from me, my numbers, though like me never coming when called for, my poignancy is best spontaneous. Am I like him, needing that fix in quick corners, that fucking while ducking into the spotlight-I like your eyes and I need your name. Hello. Again. This is me, this was him. How we echo the games of ghosts we never knew, I don't know, how I fear genetic foreplay, my chopped family tree is now banned from the Internet and all the Milton Bradley games like Life and Chutes and Ladders that don't seem fun anymore as I no longer engage in such child's play. I come home late from someone's house but she doesn't ask to know that he wasn't special. I smell like it, we know what that is, when intimacy rots on your body because you never used your heart all night and so it lay perched like a nightlight, keeping you up, beating away, a small child desperately asking to be read to. My heart cried for attention but my hips rolled over it and into to the snakes of his needs, and his honesty-they treat me too sweet. My veins pulsed-impatience-seeing one color of blue, a wide lens focusing on wrists and not eyelids. I wished that I'd gone home with his friend, he had prettier eyes, and held promises of rougher sex. Being outright fucked to lick sin, not chin kissed with bitterness tucked in, that's my Friday night. Dissatisfied, escaped, I check the voicemail to the space silver cellphone. Hello, daddy says, I miss you, say hi to your mother.