& i take this filet mignon, fellate me in a cracked snow globe where my body isn’t burning & the dust rests on my arms like marmalade cicada skin, i take this filet mignon & seer it in a pan where the edges hiss like a wildfire. & i haven’t masturbated in a week & he probably knows that. i bake a swollen cake with the sound off & i can smell the tangerine on his neck while someone watches fox news in the living room beyond my bedroom door. oh, how empty i feel watching him undress his burdens & throw them in the oven. & i haven’t masturbated in a week, but, oh, the way the glitter shines on his lips. i can taste all of him; i can feel all of him. & he’s looking right at me, asking how my day was. good, honey, now why don’t you take off that tie & show me was it’s like to really be vulnerable. & i haven’t masturbated in a week, but, oh, i take this cherry blossom, these bony shoulders, sunken eyes, that emaciated belly. he takes all my blemishes & makes me beautiful. i bite the velvet sheets, velvet cake, & i bite all the tangy beasts, pungent sweethearts, luscious darlings, delectable paramours. i bite all the adjectives until my shame becomes pretty. i take this filet mignon, fellate me in a bed of wildflowers where i can’t be cooked.
Matthew Mitchell is an intersex Ohioan son of a teacher, forged in music, bloomed through prose, stitched together with slam dunk contests. His work appears in, or is forthcoming to, journals like Noble/Gas Qtrly, Palaver, Barron Magazine, Tammy, Chaleur Magazine and BARNHOUSE, among others. He is trying to do much better these days, so give him some time.