service

it’s the horror story where the dog licks your hand through the house. except that
there never was a serial killer to begin with. the local hospital doors work with their
expected rhythm, neither in nor out their breathing to keep your sheet corners quiet.

there are a lot of things you can use sheets for. i drape one over my lips so you can better see the
ghost that follows you from room to room. the dripping hits your hand and it feels. smells like
iron and sugar.

in mary shelley’s first draft, victor contracted a man versed in the other world to build him a
fucktoy out of the tissue hems of recent ghosts.

the horror story where i make you better, bending back in a long line of shudder and once-read
letters. tell me how you feel about that. use the edges of my dress if you need.

the creature opened its only eye and victor pulled back out, horrified at the chill he’d let himself
briefly plumb in thirsted gulping thrusts.

come to think of it you never asked where i grew up. out of the ground with winged creatures,
here to dance the circumference of your badly named bone, wetting as a dog does, in the accident
of service.

thank you for making me your best friend. a ghost is just a leash whose number you’ve deleted.