Fuck Formica – Eris Mohr

August 13, 2019

It’s in these spit-soaked upper limbs that I find the greatest form of contortion. The pull of bone and sinew, sex-rocked and worn-out. The strain of brutalized muscle. Muscle that could only wish it had worked as hard as my feet. Those feet that pitter-pattered, a prostitution cacophony. As if in warning. To tell of my coming. The money was easy. The drugs were easier. A shot, sniff, swallow… a three-way assault into modern heaven. I’d fuck a straight razor to turn it all around now. The blisters of what would have been. Like sun-scorched lip-prints. I remember him pressing against my ankle. The hostility I held then. The kick to the throat I gave him. I remember the late-night touches of insatiable fingertips. The fear I held then. I remember trying to strangle myself every night with a plastic belt. Age eleven. It felt like the perfect time to practice for the end. Because we all knew it was going to be like this. Half-hearted words. Filtered through recycled paper. Virtue is a marathon. I’m beyond tired, I’m dead. This if why I drop. Drop. Drop. Face of the earth. Counter. Fuck Formica. It’s gone.