2007: Whiplash

I write about sex as if it’s something beautiful, but it’s not.  It’s two bodies smashing together, doused in sweat and unmet expectations.  There is nothing beautiful about lying under someone who is rocking back and forth to some foreign beat as you dig and claw into their flesh to try to bring them back to your plane of existence.  No poetry is written in the sharp cries that untrained ears would call throes of misery.  Minds entangled in sex are not glorifying the person creating what pleasure may be painted on synapses—those minds are fogged in the glitter and flashes of chaotic nothingness.  Two bodies do not climax together, wrapped in sweet bliss or sonnets of yore.  Bodies lurch and arch and beg as throats croak commands and lies.

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