CARMINE
Today I arise from bed after two and a half hours of sleep and float down my loft and out onto Campbell Street all the way to West Oakland Bart, an apparition. I keep looking down to my body to check and make sure that I’m properly clothed, and not in my opaque blue nightgown with a v of white lace framing my breasts, nipples blushing pink under chiffon. I’m on Bart and I open my legs and close them. I open them again to get a good view of my crotch to make sure blood and cum aren’t slowly seeping though my jeans. There’s all this stickiness. My body is scattered, unconfined to its molecular borders, and I’m having a difficult time differentiating between the sweaty vinyl of the seat, the knee of the passenger next to me, and membranes of my thighs, vaginal lips, and ass. I am one with the filth. As I sit, lost in vacuity, secretions of carmine ooze from the wound of my entirety, making a mess of the phenomenal world. How can I find a way to channel the carmine into ivory, the void of death into the stability of the bone-ivory charge. I can’t do it. My mind is weak. I haven’t slept and I’m surrounded by people in the realm of my organism. Some part of me is still cums.