Pry Open

Published in the New Moon Anthology as Modus Operandi

I puzzle, and it’s not the only word I can think of a million

others have skated by pretentious, aloof, out of reach, dark, extraterrestrial.

But I was born superficial, so I consciously choose to look past

the fact that he

uses words I only dream of using, without reason or explanation,

if there is one, only he could tell, and he never will.

I choose to evolve into dissection while his soul seeps between his eyelids;

those ancient rusting doors of an unknown universe that I itch

to pry open, to intrude at their center, to force phantom hinges to perform their task.

I tease with glaring fluorescents as he lives in worlds I pay to catch

glimpses of,

combustible, alight with ideas firing on all cylinders.

Eager to trace each pathway of his maze, to dance through his cathedral,

I seize, grinding, digesting; and his shoulders are

sharp ridges holding a Holy Artifact encased in darkness as a

message to the world, as a loose thread untouched, begging to be

unraveled.

I’m unable to regurgitate his words, they pool hot in my mind

as his hands, alien and virginal, ooze tension, anxiety. They race

to keep pace

violently mixing beauty with carnage, the skin thin

enough to peel away, expose muscle fibers easily picked apart.

I dive deeper, scraping each bone to a squeaky clean,

crackling through cartilage, I explore every cavity and plead the porous

substance to absorb me.

I greet the soft thudding of my heart deep within my ribs,

the slow whoosh of air from quivering nostrils and

the steady buzzing of the yellow light.

The fan whirs overhead, gently ticking against a thin chain but

it’s the wet squeak against the plastic

that pierces my ears,

shatters the quiet.

It’s time to clean up.