PRECISION

I’m making it something more than it is. It’s a quick escape, something you can justify when you’re lonely, scared, bored—when they’re doing it too. I come back to the house, you’re sitting on the stairs—you’ve been drinking all afternoon and you’re poisoned. Make-up gone since cried or fucked away, I don’t want to even know what you’ve been doing with your girlfriends. Talking to you is toxic, from the steel stink of the sweat on your shoulders to your breath that makes me cringe and nauseous. My little waste, my little sinkhole of time and effort with no return except the diminished value of your fuck when you get too drunk.

The trust that finances and facilitates calling you anything other than the cunt you are at times dissipates with the absorption of the chemical I know well but can handle better. The precision of my lusts, of my motivations, is never fractured or imperfect. It’s focused and real. It’s bitter and irate but it pleasures me. It’s worth it.

My knuckles once showed straight through the skin when I stopped punching against a man’s face. It was another example of precision—bold and perfect, cutting and killing with as much force as a muscle can manage before it blisters, or the cerebral manifold beckons it to stop. That’s where the salty guilt taste pools on the lip and drips down into the battered face and onlookers be damned, you can justify what you’ve done. It’s an art. It’s beautiful.
I can’t think of holding you underwater, as much as I think of drowning when I come inside, have to use my fucking foot to stomp down the cans that rattle from top to bottom in the bag. You say you’re not beautiful. You tell me they didn’t thank you for cooking, for supplying. And my words are of no consequence. You tell me fucking around a while ago netted you a whore’s disease and you wonder if I think of you in similar terms. Terminology, language—what I want to say I can’t.

I’ve never been closer to leaving. Losses split like a lip and fuck, if it isn’t sweet to taste the surprise when I draw my fist and face back. Another sloppy fuck and I realize reward is not worth the risk or the treason or the insufferable reiterations of your teenage wounds. Do you think it’s the scar that shows on your thigh when you hike up the skirt? Do you think it’s the tiny beer-paunch barely discernible from a bunching of fabric? Starve yourself again, let the cigarettes turn your fingers and teeth raw yellow as they beg for sustenance. Concerns of your weight, your figure, you used to be a goddamned queen.

You see a woman, any one of these cunts, and you think aloud you have the tighter pussy, that you suck the better cock. You say men don’t know what to do with you. I do, others did better—the ones that had you and left you bruised and fucked and wrecked on some the idea they may have been right to do so. Justified. How’d you learn to do it so well? Did it always fit? You can’t remember, can’t recall details. Everything is fogged, ill, confused and advisable by the tendency of a moment to flutter away. Remember this, these moments—the ones where it hurts again, when you’re twisted up and rotting inside from the treachery of friends, of kisses to your neck when you sleep.

Plugging away, your tongue drowsing over my cock and I pull away. I’m failing you. Filling your mouth, the tip grating your throat until you choke. I’m mixing too much. Too many scenes. Your past comes into the room and lines between me, men’s hands stroking their cocks until hard and their ruthless big-lipped speech, the gorilla language of faggots base enough they are only ever consumed by the prospect of a fuck. The closest they’ll get to you, penetrating the Brazilian-waxed cunt and blowing coked up, boozy loads on your rashy flesh. Why do I care so much about something I can’t change?

Had I been there, seen the psycho throw your well-framed bones through a wall, down the stairs, put his shoe to your throat and hold a gun to your temple. What I would’ve done, what I’ve done before. Ashley’s rape left her cunt battered, mutilated—of no use to anyone. Pretty girl, small, the dents in her flesh that remained brown and bleeding from the deep trauma of those two pairs of hands running all over her, into her, through her. I knew them and their spectacular cravings, their wants and grisly willingness to take part. But this was mine, she was part of this assembly I’d created, lured. I took the butt of a borrowed 9mm and I collapsed one’s nose, his forehead. Put the gun down this throat like a cock, made him suck the barrel. I pulled it out, taking teeth and a strip of his inner cheek with it. I shot the other in the knee, stuck things in the wound. My favorite scream came from my index, because I could feel through the glove all the nasty veins coiling in defense from the touch. Now you have to live with something that can never be repealed, my decision to make it last forever.

And Ashley, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. Precise, vulgar, brutal examples that can’t even match what I’ve seen done to others. In newspapers, books, in my online meanderings. Bland, gentle, collegiate championing of death metal, black metal, forms that fail within their mold. Nazi imagery as if it’s still startling to see a Jewish body grown emaciated and scummed by the empowered, bold excess. Tell me you like to see women cry, that you like to comb through the photos. You’re tempered by the ideologies, the tastes, the argument that you’re wrong. You’re not, but even so, you keep it hidden. Because you’ve seen what it does to others. What it made them do. And I won’t even mention the names, because you know them so well—culled from the clippings and the garbage and the signs outside the courthouse for the death penalty’s reinstatement in a small Midwestern town.

You’re better than that. More precise.

You can make it last. You choose to say some things to no one, instead of sharing your ideas abroad…finding a vehicle, a voice. You’re lame, scared, you’ve been rejected before when you’ve tried. Can you defeat desires, survive lust, through the limber guitar strokes of some tin-handed static on the radio? If so, I’m envious. Nothing has ever been good enough. Never has been. It falls short once it falls past the teeth. I’d rather see that mouth contorted and fucked, wailing, walls and sick segments of crushing, pulverizing, pure noise. I can pull pain from this, hope I leave the edges at an inviting enough angle that you pull and it’s yours to share. Yours alone. You deserve it. It’s going to hurt and I’m glad.

Fiction. The best I can do, can give. Is it or isn’t it? I can’t even give it a name, let alone hold it, see it growing into a victim or a monster without a space between. She didn’t tell me she was late and thankfully it never came to be. Words. What they are, when broken down—they’ve never met the hands meet around a throat. They’ve never challenged a goddamn thing. I put them down only to watch them fail, and derive accomplishment from the splatter of the ink, the edge of the pen, but really they’re meaningless, trivial, entertainment turned commerce. There’s no price or guarantee at completion of the narrative they’ll ever wound or maim but they’re done and that’s the matter at hand. Completion. Precise. They are what they’ll be. Erected, posted, rode into town in the back of a truck like the components of a temporary fairground at the dead strip mall. Something to rally a crowd with its dazzling light or its sick-sweet smell.

Taste yourself on my cock. Lick the cum off the end. Swallow, a predicate. Turn yourself into a collision, the catastrophe. Words. Just words.