Domesticated Spirits

Photo by Cody Davis on Unsplash

Through the string twisting into a watch, through the branches of shut doors, there he is. He is tall. His clothes are heavy, wet from sweat, wet from growing his own water. There he is. He waits to be seduced and yet he does not wait.

I am bound because I believe in my chains. They are noodles to him, and they break. They fall.

They are printed. They fit on the ground. I look down at my chains and step on them. I feel nothing under my feet, not even a change in texture.

Inside of his eyes are the eyes of other people I have loved. I want sex from him. He will never give that to me.

In his hands I see blood. In his blood I see hands.

And there are the boxes. He offers to let me step into another dimension. Don’t I want to?

But I know it is a trick.

There is something cold and metallic in my mouth.

There is something cold and smooth inside of me.

There is something cold and sticky holding my eyes shut.

I am being refrigerated. If I am not, I will overheat. If I overheat, I will not retain information.

I must retain information.

He is being held together with screws and wires. I laugh because he is not organic. I have all of my…