Anna Eyre
Ligeia
All I want is a drink of water and when I stumble down the stairs toward resource he braces my arm; keeps bruises from splattering in a fall. Here in dim confines of a simple night excursion he words continuum numbers that resist definitive letters. How can I help but agree to walk on his deck and over look the city’s grid. I understand brown illuminated by red in his pupils and spell naked. One-two-three he chants outcome as a relative progression in logic. Follow me, he says, plucking the hairs from his head and threading them into a rope. To do what he says, means my rope will be longer and when the last strand is twined he dangles it over the guardrail. We wait for an encounter and he begins to interpret my empty scalp pores as initiative and demeanor. Come cleaner, he says stroking his belly with his feet. Do what I do monkey girl and you will be neat. So my body twists into a knot that eventually locks stiff. He picks me up as if I weigh not more than a cloak, asks, Would you like to be bait? He tugs on my hair rope and begins to sew each one of my limbs into his skull. My eyes only see movement so I rely on my flesh to reveal placement. Soon I feel the stacks of other women’s thighs, breasts, and even lungs. I press on their organs and hear him moan, Oh dear female, stroke harder, I want to feed on your collective afterglow. Your rope is my thread of dead that still grows after heart ceases. His bones vine through my flesh scissoring interjections, force a cough to clean our guttural throat. I still want water and dry scratches conversation but my demand is only dribble he salivates to swallow. Now my brain is your body.