It’s past noon and I’m sitting in my bed, ceiling fan whirling above me, listening to your favourite man from The Six, eating melon and photographing myself.
Skin and skin and skin, layers of sheets, clothing, fruit… tongue around flesh, juice flows through gapped-teeth…
I’m so, I’m so, I’m so, I’m so, I’m so proud of you…
Everything is uncertain and clear at the same time. I know what I want,
and I want you.
Flesh broken down into tributaries, traced lines, white on beige on cream on pink on red on peach.
Green and silver, shiny and dewy and crumpled.
Spinning and moving and being consumed.
Ingestion of green flesh, tender-sweet.