I want the memories of me to haunt you like a regrettable Halloween costume. I want to cut out eyeholes from your bed sheet and stand staring, silently whispering: this sheet still smells of you — of you, of you, of you. I want to emancipate you: This queer lawyer-poet from Hell conjured into court waving an application for summary judgement and a quick orgasm round the back, your honour. I want you to place the tip of your cock on my tongue — your flesh a communion tablet — He died, He is risen, He will cum again. I want to shackle you to my monogamy like a failed heterosexual experiment left unfinished on the slab — I want the memories of me to haunt you in this dinky bed sheet bursting through the ground with camp flair like an undead Liberace and all your ex-boyfriends stumbling back through the treeline emerging once more from the fog: “THEY’RE COMING TO GET YOU, BARBARA!” I want the memories of me to run deep inside you to bleach your skeleton pink to put a filter over your eyes that shows all my future replacements as only bones. But in reality your memories have already been refurbished and like Dr. Frankenstein selling his secret lab to a reputable pharmaceutical I still cannot hold a candle to you it seems. Not even the dead can tell you what to do.
Featured photo by Florian Lidin on Unsplash.