SOMEONE DECIDED TO PUBLISH ME?

…Only in a Wesleyan University publication, but seeing my writing in print is still incredibly exciting.

A short poetic prose piece that is two of my favourite things, erotic and queer, PICTURE THIS has been published in the Fall 2014 issue of Unlocked Magazine. The lovely Ella Dawson added this story to the contents of her last issue before relinquishing her Editor-In-Chief position upon graduating. I have many things to thank her for, but believing in my writing would be at the top of the list.

The piece after the jump–Enjoy.

PICTURE THIS:

We are standing on a fire escape on a Tuesday night in the cold that only this city can muster. The buildings’ lights are dimming because of the late hour but everything seems brighter from this high up—every step has been another risk. A metaphor for this relationship. Willow slumps against the railing, smiling the same electric grin that kept me charged all week. Streets loom below us, distance I can feel creeping up my spine and the wind is ruffling her long brown hair. I lost count of how many stairs we had walked up about a quarter of the way back down. Willow launches off the rail suddenly and catches my chin—don’t look down, look at me—and her eyes wash over me like I’ve jumped headfirst into the East River. I taste sediment in the cracks in her lips, adventures she hasn’t yet taken me on, and she pushes her mouth against mine like a wax seal on my fate. I’m a bad influence— no, I’ve just never dared to be this bold before. This is a first kiss. Our tongues twist like ampersands, hungry to bring about togetherness. But somehow, they are tentative, gentle—sipping wine like this is not the first wine tasting but maybe this is finding something to enjoy keeping in the kitchen. Kissing a girl in public, cars racing below, matching the pace of my thoughts. This is our beginning. I want to remember every part of how this feels. I want this to just be the start.

I have never fought like this with anyone else—I am boiling over and burning my palms with her words twisted round my knuckles like barbed wire. You aren’t making any sense—I don’t hear my thoughts before they leave my mouth, reaching my ears like harsh bite, I don’t mean to but this is what feeling does sometimes. Looking at her makes me bleed sorry, I am an open wound of apology. She is gravel pressing into me, but even so, I want the infection—it would mean she isn’t leaving my circulation anytime soon. Anger still dripping from the roof of my mouth and coating Willow’s tongue, but she looks tired. Tired of spitting it back so she swallows pride and tears are welling like buckets filled to the brink. Her clothes fall away with mine in haphazard piles, creating minefields we avoided in this battlefield night. It fades into black and we cling to not fading—nature not running its course.

Stopping in for a drink at the place Willow worked before taking her home was the best decision I made all week. Closing up, and she ushers everyone left out. Taking a seat on the high bar, I ask how long she needs to get her things. She smirks—I’ve got my mind on getting something else. She turns to her speakers and presses play, Stateless sings “Bloodstream” like they have their finger to my pulse as she slips her dress to the floor. I have no words for her voice, but her body is the only language my hands ever care to speak anymore. Dancing, she moves to the beat like liquid, saunters up to me and pulls me off the bar against her. We are poetry in motion, undressing metaphors and finding what makes the other’s breath hitch. On top of the table now, I feel cold mahogany against my back and her mouth on my thigh. She is tracing moans into me; they trail their shivers up my body and live in the back of my throat. A hand on my mouth—quiet—and a hand, hard and fast, makes me bite into her skin to keep from crying out. I try to put my hands around her, bring her mouth to mine but she holds them above my head before biting my lip fiercely and lavishing kisses down my chest ‘til she grabs at the curves of my hips like I am going to try to run away—like I am going anywhere. Her hot breath comes in ragged, fast, loud bursts and I want you, I have been waiting for this all day and I am done being had. Pick her up, heave hastily onto the bar, I guide her legs onto my shoulders as she giggles and gasps. My mouth is on her, and as I trace her with my tongue, I draw moans from the pit of her small body. Her legs flex around me, drawing me in closer. My hands are under her ass, she is the only thing I am capable of thinking of, I am trying to pour her into me, I want to leave no skin unravished. One hand laces through my hair and grips tight—Ohh—and I see the other dart to her mouth as she arches into me. Coming together like this, whenever we want one another, we have one another.

This is risky, but this is bliss.

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