The Malady of Death



You wouldn't have recognized him; you'd have seen him everywhere
at once: in a bar, on a plane, in a movie, in a taxicab, in
your innermost self.  You'd have seen him in your innermost self
late at night, when your lips sought to relieve their emptiness.

#

You may have asked him to stay with you, to relieve the
endless emptiness.

"Only for a month," he said.

You accept.

#

You start cheating on him almost immediately, but each
transgression makes you desire him more.  You taste his mouth
on their lips.  You feel him inside you.  Only him.  His cock
in your mouth.

#

Once, he cried out in pleasure.  You tell him not to.  You tell
him he must be silent, silent as the men who took their women
before the birth of language.

Outside, the cicadas cry out in the night.

#

You tell him you are committing suicide through him, that
each time he fucks you, you feel emptier.  You tell him to
take you until there is nothing left.

Somewhere far away, insects whisper in the darkness.

#

He asks to take you *there*, where it will cause the most pain.

You accept.

You cry out.

While he hurts you, you hold his hand for comfort.

His wool sweater scratches against your back.

#

"Only a month," he repeats.

You say nothing.

A wasp flies through the open window, casting its shadow upon
the wall.

#

You search his eyes for cruelty.  You find none, only the
hardness of tombstones.

You ask him to take you *there* again, where it will cause
you the most pain.

He turns you around and forces his way inside, his teeth biting
the skin on the back of your neck.

You cry out.

The pain is unbearable.  You try to squirm out from underneath
him, but he holds you down.

#

His finger caresses your cheek.  It is a gentle touch, like
a babe's.

Without knowing why, you begin to weep uncontrollably.

You tell him not to touch you.

#

Alone in bed, your fingers engulfed by emptiness, you come.

You hear the wasp, but you cannot see it.

#

You turn over on your stomach.  Your fingers begin again.
You try to remember the pain.

You come.

#

You feel the wasp crawling on your back, between your shoulder
blades.

You imagine him whipping you there.

You pump your hips down against the bed, forcing your fingers
in deeper.

You bite into the pillow.

The wasp stings.  His whip cuts you open.

You come.

#

The room is silent, motionless.


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