An imperfect match, the two of us, we come together in chaos. The world of our desires is no longer mute, but a symphony of discord….”
by jason jackson
Glitter stars and eyes bright blue; a slash of mouth, cracked red; under translucent skin, blue veins dormant; a scar, and a tattoo: you.
A lack of substance; bones and skin; hair like wire, wrapped tight; tiny muscle knots; old clothes, from the backs of the dead; anger and apathy: me.
An imperfect match, the two of us, we come together in chaos. The world of our desires is no longer mute, but a symphony of discord. Imbalance lies at the heart of our connection, as we strive to match our dismal longings, each to the other.
……The sky is a weight pressing hard upon my back as I force you to the closed-grave earth. There is no air between us, and the friction of skin on skin conjures no spark. We sweat, you and I, like all the rest; we sweat, moan and stink. There is no beauty in this. We appear as one to the night’s eye, a contorted, tortured thing. We shriek as one to the night’s sky, a wordless, obscene prayer.
……There is no reply.
……Abandoned to each other, we succumb. Every worthless piece of me is in you, and your acceptance is an eager surrender. We crave the death of longing. Our aim is to annihilate desire.
……It is a bloody kill.
……And we lie apart, but touching still. Our breaths are torn from heaving chests. There is rain, anointing us: we are newly born. The night is greying, and dawn will find us changed.
There is no solace in our silence.
(illustration: kurt eisenlohr)
Jason Jackson lives in Bristol, England, with his wife. He is a member of Alex Keegan’s Bootcamp writing community.