By Giovanna Coppola


You're young, with breasts. You think of your dead father and your thighs swell. Under the covers in your pink room with the blue blanket you can't think of your father without the blood rushing. Catholic school taught you to think of the devil the same way. And so you fight with your insides willing your body to subside to acquiesce to your reason to your conscience but what about your cells that are fighting to breathe? Little tiny brains that are seeping through your skin that don't know nothing about how people use fire to burn people sew beads into their facial muscles so every involuntary action is checked. plead with yourself what is going on? you want to touch yourself you NEED to touch yourself and your sheets are wet you're sweating and you think of the breathing your parents made when their skin touched dark in their bedroom in the middle of the night the wind tapping the windows closing the december world out when both were so alive they couldn't deny it peeled back the layers so they are both five again a laugh a whimper hands over hands and down below you bring your hands down below too and now he is dead but you are alive and where would you be if both of your parents weren't craving to be alive and what about the spot on your body where your lungs connect what about your daddy coming down and smiling and you pulling his blue veins out what about him sleeping next to your mother to let her breathing pull him into a sleep and what about you rubbing yourself in your blue blanket at night before school starts the next day before you have to brave faces that don't want to look at your body because you like to scream.



It's night, you like to hide in front of the tv with the lamp off and you pull out the porn the two men on the cover, you watch your favorite scene of two men in an english garden by a lake, two boys in the summer time with the rare sun burning their asses. and you touch yourself cursing yourself for making a future mess. the buttons in the blue couch puncture your legs, your pants down at your ankles. You kick them off and feel dirty for sitting half naked on the couch. your friends sleep on that couch. you look down at your white socks, force yourself to leave them on. One boy is on the screen on his knees, the other bends over and kisses his shoulder, you think you see a bit of his tongue. You think of the imprints the grass leaves on their knees. The boy slides his dick in and your slimy hands pump your own. Car lights pass over your window and you want the car to stop the man to come up to your window and climb in and take your dick in his mouth. You want him to know you like an animal in heat. You want to fuck him and then you want him to leave you. You think of both of you on the couch your tongue flickering over his shoulder and when you come listening to the two boys groaning on the screen, you get the spasms of shame, an image of kissing your sister in the car, and you are ruined, aiming your dick to your feet so some of your sock can soak up your cum. You're glad that that car didn't stop, that there was no man that you had to touch, that you can go to sleep with a limp body that will refuse to remember in the morning.

Return to Contents