(no subject)
I need a man
To make me moan
To make me bad
I need a man
To drive me slow
To drive me mad.
When he woke up, every morning it stank.
The soft light through the gauzey, almost kitsch maroon drapes suggested blood even before his eyelids opened, the light through the flesh even deeper, redder- inciting. He rolled to his side, curling in from his spread-eagle, and he would rub his face in a silky pillow, still loathe to give in to morning and awaken, and he would inhale and he would smell it. He would pull away, his lip curling, bright eyes turning dark, and he would shuffle to the bathroom but even as he brushed his teeth, even as he eyed his hair, it was there. He could smell it in the water he showered in; he could smell it in the air he breathed. It was all over his clothes, no matter how many times he washed them, and every morning found him rifling through his closet in desperation for something unscented, untainted.
When he fell asleep on the couch, eager to wake up and not smell it all over his bed, all over his arms, he fell and as he shoved himself to his knees, to his feet, he couldn’t help but notice that it was in his carpet, it was in his sheets, it was in his socks and it was on the counter and it was on his food and in the cupboards, and the only place he thought it wouldn’t be, he hoped it wouldn’t be, it was there.
It was on his skin, no matter how much he scrubbed.
When he cleaned the flat, when he did all the laundry, he sank back into his bed and he didn’t breathe. For almost an hour, it felt like, he didn’t breathe, because the smell had been everywhere and now he had been everywhere, and if he breathed then he would tell which one had won, which one was stronger.
When he gave in with a burst of exhale, he didn’t even need to inhale; before he breathed in, it was in his nose, it was on his tongue and down his throat, it caked on his skin and stuck in his eyelashes, and when he rolled over and shoved his face down into the mattress it was waiting there for him.
So he shoved his face deeper and took a deep, deep breathe in.
It was cologne and patchouli and something spicy-sugary-earthy, with the faintest chemical tinge. It was like licking cotton candy and cayenne and smelling windex and walking into a Sephora, like burning incense and snorting dirt, like some jungle plant stewing in a pan. It was deep and it was dim and it was dank, it was dirty without being disgusting, it was warm without being tepid, and in the end, it was what it was. It was what a person left behind; it was what a person left after living somewhere, breathing somewhere, laughing somewhere. It was quick eyes and flashes of neat little teeth, of someone’s hair on his pillow, of someone smiling and rolling on his couch in his blankets, of someone using his toothbrush and thinking he would never notice, of someone eating his food and taking his clothes and taking up space in his life.
And it was bruises. It was hot blood rising to the skin, running down cracked lips and cracked fingers. It was the bile in his throat and on his tongue, the sweat threading down his neck and the teeth grinding in his mouth. It was the freakish red flooding his eye, the mottles of blue and purple and yellow down his arms, the swelling on his jaw, the finger marks on his throat, and it was weeks of long sleeves and jackets, peacoats and scarves. It was weeks of smouldering, it was malice in his heart, and it was someone who had left but left so many pieces behind that they stuck in his skin like grains of glass, and who left his smell in every inch of Isaiah’s life.
To make me moan
To make me bad
I need a man
To drive me slow
To drive me mad.
When he woke up, every morning it stank.
The soft light through the gauzey, almost kitsch maroon drapes suggested blood even before his eyelids opened, the light through the flesh even deeper, redder- inciting. He rolled to his side, curling in from his spread-eagle, and he would rub his face in a silky pillow, still loathe to give in to morning and awaken, and he would inhale and he would smell it. He would pull away, his lip curling, bright eyes turning dark, and he would shuffle to the bathroom but even as he brushed his teeth, even as he eyed his hair, it was there. He could smell it in the water he showered in; he could smell it in the air he breathed. It was all over his clothes, no matter how many times he washed them, and every morning found him rifling through his closet in desperation for something unscented, untainted.
When he fell asleep on the couch, eager to wake up and not smell it all over his bed, all over his arms, he fell and as he shoved himself to his knees, to his feet, he couldn’t help but notice that it was in his carpet, it was in his sheets, it was in his socks and it was on the counter and it was on his food and in the cupboards, and the only place he thought it wouldn’t be, he hoped it wouldn’t be, it was there.
It was on his skin, no matter how much he scrubbed.
When he cleaned the flat, when he did all the laundry, he sank back into his bed and he didn’t breathe. For almost an hour, it felt like, he didn’t breathe, because the smell had been everywhere and now he had been everywhere, and if he breathed then he would tell which one had won, which one was stronger.
When he gave in with a burst of exhale, he didn’t even need to inhale; before he breathed in, it was in his nose, it was on his tongue and down his throat, it caked on his skin and stuck in his eyelashes, and when he rolled over and shoved his face down into the mattress it was waiting there for him.
So he shoved his face deeper and took a deep, deep breathe in.
It was cologne and patchouli and something spicy-sugary-earthy, with the faintest chemical tinge. It was like licking cotton candy and cayenne and smelling windex and walking into a Sephora, like burning incense and snorting dirt, like some jungle plant stewing in a pan. It was deep and it was dim and it was dank, it was dirty without being disgusting, it was warm without being tepid, and in the end, it was what it was. It was what a person left behind; it was what a person left after living somewhere, breathing somewhere, laughing somewhere. It was quick eyes and flashes of neat little teeth, of someone’s hair on his pillow, of someone smiling and rolling on his couch in his blankets, of someone using his toothbrush and thinking he would never notice, of someone eating his food and taking his clothes and taking up space in his life.
And it was bruises. It was hot blood rising to the skin, running down cracked lips and cracked fingers. It was the bile in his throat and on his tongue, the sweat threading down his neck and the teeth grinding in his mouth. It was the freakish red flooding his eye, the mottles of blue and purple and yellow down his arms, the swelling on his jaw, the finger marks on his throat, and it was weeks of long sleeves and jackets, peacoats and scarves. It was weeks of smouldering, it was malice in his heart, and it was someone who had left but left so many pieces behind that they stuck in his skin like grains of glass, and who left his smell in every inch of Isaiah’s life.