I Love You

How good can they be, that they find the black veins wrapped around my spine? That they hook their nails under my ribs and take me swimming in whiskey? How good can they be?

The Next Generation

I can't tell if they think what they do is normal or not. These Trekkies, zipping into their uniforms, gluing on their Latex, painting on their makeup, practicing their Klingon.

The video is, predictably, horrifying. I never needed to know about the Star Trek-themed dentistry clinic, but the video takes me there with a pointed finger. This is a study of sociology, a trip to the zoo.

A man's face fills the screen. A dark shock of fake curls explodes from his scalp, and his magenta-smeared lips frame yellowed teeth forsaken by orthrodonture. He explains his costume: he is dressed not as the astronaut that appeared briefly in a single episode, but that astronaut's wife.

Studying his fat features, I realize he looks vaguely like the man who was playing Dr. Frank-N-Furter the last time I went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I tell myself I really shouldn't be surprised.

Tick

Ohh, sixteen is dangerous. I can imagine the hormones cackling and riding a hellhorse, whipping it with a cat o' nine tails.

I'm thinking sex, thinking sex, thinking sex sex sex. I'm not thinking sleazy sex; I'm thinking punk sex, crazy yeah yeah yeah sex, flesh-ripping. I'm thinking Karen O's noises and bright colors.

Hey, eCreeps. Why don't you find me and fuck me?

Barbed Wire Floss Hour

I want someone to eat out of my hand. I would like to put a long nail between your eyes and hang you on my wall. I want to flirt with imperfection, make out with it. I'm gobbling up diamonds of things that I don't understand, but that understand me.

I should have bought the 5-buck labelmaker I saw. I need labels, the short strips of thick blue tape that arrange things in a single-file line for execution. I need names. Someone get me names.

Why So Weary

September feels old even when it's new. There's something lavender-colored about it, like worn calico cloth.

Honestly, September, I'm sorry. Is there something I'm missing?