I quiver like the white moth I found perched on my bedroom wall. Bad news flutters in, in traces it seems. First an omen, then an ache, then a fever in time. I lay awake in the dark and I find that I quiver from imagined states and doomed possibilities. He came home with a paper. And he stood at the door. Just a paper! To proclaim! That something’s not right! I speculate in bed sheets and I dream nights before that it’s ugly or nasty or sinister too. It’s that spot.

And gold drips through fingertips —coagulated sunlight— soft globs of me spilling out everywhere.

I’ve been standing at the threshold of things, hesitating and ruminating, wondering if the place I’m going is better than the place I’ve been, wondering listlessly if I’m at the edge of me. I push ahead only to fall behind again.

I want to bruise you like fruit, plump and ripe. I want to use you and abuse you. I want to chew on you, blood vessels bursting like raspberries, malice contorting my mouth like a bright red smear. I want you to squirm like an antelope might, thrashing, kicking, fighting until the end. And I want to drag you down and drag you under into my darkest place.