Hundreds

This is a piece of paper that does not contain any clues. There isn't any detail of your whereabouts, nor is there any reference to your stark, opaline eyes. This is a blank page describing your absence. I fill it with gaze, as I would my cat's porcelain bowl with milk. I jerk my penis mechanically, my arms in the midst of a fire. I press down my pelvis and watch semen splatter across the paper. I let my lungs catch up before I squeeze my dead penis again and again. 

This is a piece of paper soaked in semen. Observe how the fluid diffuses. Observe the blotches of dark haze filling up the page. I bite my lips and scrape the salt off it. This page is all about you.

I hurry to the kitchen and get a cold glass of water. I cough after I gulp a fourth.

In my father's study I find a stack of  Manila papers sandwiched in a pile of folders. I pull out three of them and run back to my room. This time I think about the others that hurt me. I cry in monochrome, my nostrils clogged with human stench and guck.

The neighbors observe like palace guards behind their fences. I place my clothes neatly inside a large saucepan. One by one I throw sheets of paper inside. I pour a bottle of Isopropyl alcohol as I would a bottle of wine on our fourth date. I strike a match and throw it in the pan. My chest fill with the disturbing smell of burning hair and sterile hospital air. I look down and stare at my crumpled penis. I watch it as I savour the warmth on my belly, creeping towards my neck, and eventually, towards the back of my head.

Not In Love - Crystal Castles