New Ways to Say I Love You – Mathuson Anthony

December 24, 2025

White dust finds its way between his toes, the walls and floor slathered with it, the air itself like a Fritz Lang movie. A varicose vein snakes from his middle toe along the roof of his foot and into his musculature. He tries to relax, but changes his mind quickly. Tension, if anything, defines his body’s physique well. He puts a hand behind his head, dark ringlets of hair plunging the otherwise white box into the void. His cock perks up.

A tiny heart pulses away inside his ankle, the tip of the knife skating over it writing cursive lines lightly, lovingly–– the effect is immediate, even if the wound is delicate. Like a candy apple pulled from the pot, his blood coats his foot in sensuous torrents. Gravity does the dressing. A small pool gathers along his toes. Another incision, this time along the radius of his ankle, starting and ending where the initial breach ravished him. He switches knives for the small, curved, cruel one, and begins the task of removing skin–– getting to know him.

His girlfriend calls him sporadically, her birthday trip to France extended more times than his ego can account. Seven days becomes months. His dad, divorced and now a fag, tells him to move on. His mother offers no advice, but her boyfriend does, “it’s likely she’s found someone there”. He punches him quickly, but not without ethics–– if he had the guts he would’ve deflected the blow. Instead, he balks and turns purple with righteousness. He leaves the house before that idiot’s blood flow becomes words. It’s colder than his clothing is designed to accommodate, a downside to hasty exits, luckily New York is built of places one can duck into when outside becomes intolerable. His friend is behind the bar that night and pours him two fernets in succession. It’s after the second glass is empty that he notices him.

“My hairline is kinda fucked, alopecia I think, I’ve got spots where it’s just scalp”. He takes his hat off anyway. “Show me”. Fingers push up behind his ear, a strip of white smooth skin, he drops the curtain back down and leans his head forward. A different patch of white, this one a thin crescent inches above the nape of his neck. “My girlfriend goes for guys with long hair so it sucks I can’t really do it for her”. His eyes flick around the room, or the lack of room. “It’s converted, there’s a rolling bed back in the kitchen I sleep on, but I prefer to keep it empty in here so I have space”. The boy sits in the chair and kicks his shoes off tilting his head back before pulling off his hoodie. He sniffs his armpit quick. “Sorry if I stink”. Saliva pools in his mouth. “Oh, don’t worry”.

The kid stumbles in like a toddler fresh from a nap. Limbs awkward and graceless. Likely somewhere between 20 and 25, light complexion, skinny frame but suggestions of muscle present, in short, the exact kind of guy he’s wild for. The bartender goes over to him and begins to pour before even speaking. He throws it back and smiles at her in thanks. She laughs and pours a second. He puts a hand on her shoulder and shakes his head in some comedic display of gratitude. Touch, it’s so easy for people to just touch. There’s a wall there, naked to quick glances, but discernible in certain light. No matter the cadence of his speech, or shapelessness of his clothing, he can’t cross it, he can’t afford the closeness just beyond it. That’s what it is to want indiscriminately, to desire beyond the scope available to you. The boy is looking at him, he must’ve been staring, so he raises a glass quick in acknowledgment. “You can put his next one on my tab”. She delivers the drink and throws a thumb back towards him, the boy cranes his neck around her and looks at him again. He walks over.

His veins are large and tinted green, the compression band theatrical and unnecessary. His fingers burn where the lighter’s heat radiates through the spoon, but his grip is steady. The kid is grinning at him and it thrills him. The juvenile complicity in breaking the rules together, being connected in some scheme. The needle sucks up the tar, he brings it to his face. Virtually no bubbles, it’s good work and good shit. “You ready?” “Fuck yeah”. He penetrates him, sucks up some blood, and pushes it back in. The kid’s eyelids flicker as if in ecstasy, or in his case, blissful apathy. He keeps his hand on the kid’s arm longer than necessary, feeling the warmth settle, then puts the needle away and takes out three knives. There’s no need to rush though, so he undoes his belt and lets himself look.

The man isn’t unattractive, but carries himself like he is, a kind of learned modesty meant to apologize for his lack of beauty. He’s definitely a fag, but that’s okay, fags make for great conversation sometimes, even better when they’re footing the tab. “So what do you do?” The guy blinks and draws his eyebrows down quickly like he’s unused to having questions aimed his way. “I’m a photographer, mainly real estate and corporate headshots, but sometimes artier stuff too when the bills are paid”. “Are the bills paid?” He laughs. “Yeah, right now I’m all good”. The man rubs his eyes and his shirt sleeve rumples a bit. Track marks in various stages of healing pepper his inner arm. One, so recent a small bead of blood is still jellied before scabbing. He looks at him and smiles. “I can’t believe the mosquitos are so bad this time of year, any idea where they might be?”

He’s dead now, the second or third injection sealing his fate, it’s hard to be exact, the kid had more resilience than he’d approximated. That’s native New Yorkers for you. When he scraped the flesh off his metatarsals the boy made a sand-papery shout, sharp enough to scare him. He spat the mouthful of meat onto the floor. The second injection went in as easily as the first and the remaining stiffness released. His scalp resists longer than he expects. When it finally gives, he kisses the skull once, still warm.

Being high isn’t nearly as special as you’d think. The first time you do it you’re floored, and after that it’s just a base state you chase with vengeance. Most people are already managing something. Some wear it openly. Some don’t. This guy’s probably going to suck his dick while he’s clonked out, hopefully he won’t fuck him, but he doubts it. The guys a total bottom. He’s more likely to eat him out than penetrate. If this makes him bi, who cares. He looks at the white of the ceiling and lets it happen. Might be nice honestly. Fuck his girlfriend.

He’s crying. The boy is all over the floor, and the chair, and the walls. His fingers tremble where they balance a cigarette slowly burning to the filter. There’s no way to share this with him and it singes. He looks to the spot where he placed the stomach and large intestines, cataloguing everything the boy ate before trying some partially digested portions of it himself. He addresses the skull, utterly un-unique. Like some species of clones that disguise themselves with latexy fabrics and coppery jam we parade around. But there’s no way to make him an I even when it’s all laid out like this. A beautiful diagram of what he was.

“What’s your chosen method of suicide? “He takes a drag of his cigarette, one he’d rolled himself, contemplating. They’re walking to his apartment in Dumbo. The boy kindly participating in his never-ending survey of questions. “Overdose”. A good answer. His favorite cartoon is Avatar: The Last Airbender, and citrus fruit, Lemons. Very clearly, then, it’s a beautiful feeling to be of service to someone. The boy spits on the sidewalk, greenish yellow and ringed with liquid white. With strength he resists the urge to crouch down and press his face into it. That time will come.