Oh, Mother, and the wafts of menstrual blood.
You can never be satiated.
To be satiated is a state of grace.
To be satiated is better than joy and love.
It is to be without desire.
But, I too, am an addict.
It starts like this—you look at a tube of toothpaste and all you think of is its innards seeping onto a woman’s boobs and you get hot and bothered over some f*****g toothpaste. You’ll never look at toothpaste the same way again.
You’ll never look at yourself the same way. Ever.
This is an ode to goop.
This is an ode to the s**t and the muck and the wrecks.
This might be an ode to hobos, except they’re dead to themselves.
This is an ode to treason, to Abby, the wife.
This, simply put, is a prelude to addiction.
***
I wake up the next morning and find Sylvia in bed with me h
