I wasn't a writer until I contracted syphilis. Some say that I am not a
writer. That I coast on syphilis alone. This I will not dispute. Like
the rest I sleep. The words rot my hand. I call it art. You see the
cardboard stain. I pass the spread. It quells itching. Open toward me.
My hand is getting smaller. Soon it will go inside you. I smell this
happen. The leak is here again. I need a tunnel. I need you closer. I
have to go. The sore is downright academic now.
PS – Contrary to popular belief, this is not, as of June, a
suicide note. I need enough time to learn what hurts you. Tell the
child its home was burning long before we made her.
- - -
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of net efekt.
Read SK's story, "Progress: A Play in _ Acts."
w i g · l e a F