We were hanging at your place. That one that reeked of class with the servile doorman and deep-rocked rings on the fingers of the housewives peeking through their peepholes. Drugs by the fistful, uppers, downers, and void openers. We kept staring at the walls.
“What would it be like if I bit your ear off?”
“What would it be like if I bit your ear off?”
“What would it be like if I bit your ear off?”
We listened to the echoes of our words like reverberating springs in industrial beats. With that, the sidewalk was a three-window jump away. We heard the Ubers and Lyfts and all the animalia of 33rd and 5th breeding perpetually. We wondered what of the phallic fungi which grows beneath sidewalk prisons and thought about ingesting that too. We looked into each other’s eyes and tried to find some love. We touched irises with dirty fingertips, and it finally clicked. There’s no intimacy when the body becomes a husk. So, we ate quinoa and kale. We felt every inch.
We weren’t supposed to have a gun. We weren’t supposed to go into the safe in the closet adjacent to the bed with a brawny bedframe like an outstretched Hercules. So, we didn’t. We left the room. The wives who were peeping were now eating and the doorman who was not on salary held the door for us.
We caught the B uptown, hopping the turnstile. Our red-heart sunglasses fell to the ground and we crushed them with our black striped Adidas as we made a leap of faith. The drummers in the station were a rave we could swallow. We held hands. Bumping shoulders from side to side as we swayed down to the platform. We saw a man who we thought to push into the tracks but favored his pastel suspenders and the head on his back which sang in fifths.
On the B uptown, eating Penis Envy from an overpaid Ziploc. Counting the anomalies on faces, each mole was a blessing. We thought about smashing the windows of this shit smelling train but quickly realized our little arms were meant for precision rather than force. Or we lost interest. Someone left a pink stroller in the corner. There is a baby on the roof.
We felt the midnight breeze like a flirty touch, so we stripped. We wandered Jackie O’s reservoir and thought it’d be a blast to fuck during the Zapruder film on loop. Our bellies were soft. Our thighs were scraping against grass. The moon’s laughing at us,
“totally Smashing Pumpkins before Corgan got all redpilled.”
We held hands and said the Our Father to the best of our recollections. We made the sign of the cross and it was nipple play. It was just us. The few stragglers just walked past. Everything was perfect.
The tabs were starting to wear off from earlier. High’s coming down, our bodies started to feel heavy. The flask was shot, and the bars were hyper stimulus. We started digging through that zebra striped jacket we left on the bench for the goods. Sorted through the pills and took the emerald ones. They were shaped like S’s. We grabbed the knife.
We got dressed. We left the park. We strolled past the museums where your father’s work was still on display. Our lips were slogged anchors. The air was so heavy. We found an NYPD vehicle and carved Nietzsche quotes we didn’t understand into its doors. There was a man sleeping on the sidewalk. He was a conglomerate of thread. We readied the knife.
