to be clear

You are my honey [redacted]. When the [redacted] opened: rain

orange meridian universe. You pour me a [redacted] and it bleaches

my insides. You love my handsome [redacted]. What if I were happy,

with you, and suddenly: squashed lice and bugfull of blood under my

[redacted]. On my walls there are [redacted] of yours, bleak and

faded. They keep me company in the darkness of my [redacted].

Everyone knows about our [redacted] anyway, the way we [redacted]

around each other, reptilian and yellow-eyed. There’s nothing like

drinking on the [redacted] line home with you. Skeletons in suits

waiting for their stop and you, whispering sickly [redacted] into my

ear. This [redacted] look between us. [Redacted] as a confirmation of

being alive. My most [redacted] love, I’ll go with it, if you promise me

it’s what you need.

Arcadia Molinas is a writer, editor and performer of the abject, the body, and the subterranean politics of interpersonal relationships. She has hosted and curated readings at Tate Modern, the ICA, Somerset House and Reference Point, and her writing has appeared on Hobart Pulp, Discount Guillotine, minor lit[s] and Write or Die, amongst others. She is the online editor of Worms Magazine.