Neon, Neon

Meet me at the crossroads, he says.Bring ice, & everything that’s holdingyou back. I find myself whisperingknots, & anchors, & harmfultransgressions into cubes, & throwing theminto oncoming traffic.The cars run over all the thingsyou need to empty, & scatter themin new directions. This is how beginningsstart.I am hot as a shotof whiskey. The beer flushon my cheeks like I am not froma drinking state. Like I have neverrun barefoot in the snow from the barafter having one too many tequila shooterson NYE, breast boosted like I could keepup with the boys. The boys who onlyever wanted to see how long, or how muchit took to get the layers off.There must be a body under there somewhere.Speculation the only concrete an imaginationhas in the middle of 40 degrees below on January nights.This is how we make ourselves, he says,eyes green as jungle jade. We like to sitacross from each other & measure the amountof restraint we carry. I like to play with fire.He likes to get burned. There is symbiosisin every aspect of fuck.Do not whisper God’s name, he saysas his hands hold my throat. I am sobored, I say. No, you are tragic. He holdshis thumb around my esophagus, his digitsimprinting their physicality in bruises. I havenever felt closer to dying. I have never feltso alive. I choke on all the usual moans.Don’t be simple, he says. That’s what’s boring.Who fucking wants ordinary? Ordinary,is for housewives & fuckboys who thinktheir decisions in life are special. Special,is for second place ribbons. You, are a trophy case.Polish yourself clean in all your glory.There is nothing but distance between words.The flicker of neon. The clack of misguidedboots down a sawdust hall. The clock measuresmoments we cannot digest. I cannot hold liquor,or a conversation like I used to. Like I so mistakenly desire.He speaks, soft as morning, of a light I do not see.Of a beauty I have never known. The night is blackerthan blindness. Watch the sky. Measure how the starsdance. What does it take to tango? Where do you learnmoves like that? Winter closes in with each breath.I am not ready for the cold, I tell him with soaked intent.Darling, no one ever fucking is.Photography by Adam Birkett