November 2011
6 posts
October 2011
12 posts
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seven deadly monologues: lust
You’re crooked and I’m queer, I think it’s no coincidence that we stumble home with your fingers in my hair, spindles to prick, glass left broken on the table, libation on the City’s seedy altar. These words on my lips are centuries old, yet older still the burn of scorchmarks fresh across your cheek, and the strain of hips against better judgment. Your breath, hitched with...