bk-Blayze

For months on end you hear about how good the restaurant is. From EVERYone. You avoid it cause you're so sick of hearing about it. Then finally, when the hype dies down a little, you go in secret. You sit down. You're given the menu--which only lists desserts--and you order. Then, brought to you on a gigantic silver platter, you are given the best, most sinfully delicious cakes, cookies, pastries, etc. you have ever tasted in your ENTIRE LIFE. You eat and you eat and you eat and you eat. You're up all night on a sugar high. Days pass. Weeks pass. Suddenly, ordinary food doesn't taste good anymore. Meat? No thanks. Veggies? Bleh. Fruit? Not

She clothes herself in poetry, seals her skin within the verse. Each line becomes another garment that conceals her fixed form's curvature, but peels away when read. Last night I dissected a stanza, clamped it tight between my teeth and tugged it down her legs. Her body breathes warm and sweet, speckled red like a summer strawberry field. I sucked the juice from her lines and spit the punctuation like seeds. My lips mouthed the shape of her words as my skin grew more sticky with every splash of imagery dripping down my chin. I peeled apart her soft pages with sticky, pink fingertips that left them clinging to my skin. A sing

August 25th     She'd heard the word from Theodore Rhodes first.     Age eleven at the time, he'd been deeply engrossed in one of his more barbaric videogames when something odd happened: an object, not one of any obvious importance or appeal, had somehow wound up in the middle of his digital path. The brawny thug under his control had inspected the object, jumped on it, punched it, and finally shot at it several times before Theodore decided that the object was just an error, a mistake. A glitch.     And Glitch fancied herself just that.     But even now, as the approximate seventeen-year-old sat at the end of the table two years lat