I have to be very specific with you because of your incredibly tiny brain. There are all kinds of kisses. Some are desirable, and others are the breakdown of your life. Yes, I see you in forensic terms sometimes, because you used to be a man, and now you are a stick of flesh I use to vent my feelings. I’m a woman. We have feelings and periods and emotions and gossipy needs, and they are all a handful, a weight that falls squarely on your shoulders. And you thought you had no use for geometry.
I’ll explain it to you in terms you can understand: You are mine. You are a possession made of flesh and bone. You were once human; a gathering of genetic sludge that was a recognizable voter, a social voice of one, an owner of earthly possessions, a kisser of women, a fucker of women, a worker of job, a driver of car. Now you belong to me the same way that unused tampon I carry in my purse belongs to me. You saw what I carry in my purse.
Because I put you there first after I shrank you. I made you tiny. I did. A stranger you don’t know. I stalked you from behind as you pondered something stupid like What Beer To Get, or Gas Prices Have Dropped. I came close enough to spray you/inject you/zap you, and you sank into your clothes in front of all those gas-station people. They didn’t blink. They were busy with their lotto numbers and six packs and cigarettes and going home.
They made it home. You’ll never see that pile of bricks again. You’ll never smell your mancave again, that hole where you keep your books and porn and laptop and secrets. You’ll never smell your car again, found stale and unfathomable, framed by parking-space bands of asphalt paint, the silent witness to your disappearance. When they realize you’re gone, I’ll have fucked your little brains out of their plane, and into my reality.
And I’ll kiss you. I’ll kiss you forever. Your body will be hickey-purple day in and out as I suck color into you. I’ll wake you up with my full lips, descending on you every dawn after a few hours of sleep. I’ll pull you into their hold, and you’ll wake up to my morning breath, rancid vodka and grapefruit juice, teeth I haven’t brushed yet because I was too drunk, too aroused.
Then my lips will lift away from you, and you’ll thank whatever force until I pinch you between my fingers, because you are mine now, and you’ll witness all of me. I’ll carry you to the bathroom, where I’ll make you watch what I do, make you listen to my toothbrush, deafen you as I flush the toilet, smother you with the scent of toothpaste. And then I’ll kiss you again. Mouth kisses with reverse lividity; kisses with their own zip code. You’ll drown in their fleshy depth, and you’ll begin to understand this morning will be like the rest of every morning from now on.