Soreenkid
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Dust iiWe loved each other so much. So much that sometimes it hurt, even when we were close. I wanted to be her and she wanted to be me. Sex never felt complete, and afterwards we talked carelessly about easy subjects to avoid discussing the emptiness. So one day, in the kitchen, she cut me and I cut her. Gently, and softly. It was the good sharp knife we used for ‘good’. We let the blood drip into two cups, then in silence we bandaged up and went to upstairs. We fucked and there were stars but we saw different constellations.
The next day the blood was dry and rusty in the mugs. We scraped it out and onto two sheets of folded card. We looked at each other perplexed and lowered our heads to snort each other's dust. Afterwards we both carried a pouch of powdered blood, a dark plumb dust of red and viscous, burnt ochre.
It wasn't a surprise when we used the craft knife to shave slithers if flesh from each other's legs. The flesh was hung to dry in the airing cupboard. This powdered flesh was better: cocaine to blood's speed. An off white dust that made the eyes sting when snorted.
I admit I am scared of the knife, that I can't dig deeply enough to draw blood, that I will have nothing in the morning but red, raised scratches on my arm. I don't want her to cut me but she needs it and so do I. I think we both died in the past.
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