Modus Operandi (a poem)

Published in the New Moon Anthology

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 and 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, in my attempt to grind and digest 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.