Janaya

Jenn Viohl

Four Freudian Slips accost out the nudes’ freshly bared flesh with its fangs placed

awkwardly

in a twilight exposed Jacuzzi after our last human living event; an apocalypse surrounding this discretely placed armoire.

I feel its teeth sinking in and out again that supposed sacred-luminescent skin for craving suspended half-blinded grips from stark-raving-mad hands and lips that trace tactile lightening trips

on breasts and hips and thighs with counterfeit eyes manifesting four obscure human figures.

This is the end it says. Confusingly tenderizing me, singularly and solitarily

I’m wearing thin upon its palate I can taste no more.

Salvia is unbecoming when mixed in saliva. This is the end it says. It closes in, boxes in and swallows up my head, my sex like a box for the dead; hidden from orange juice-colored hummus sunrises and suicidal sunsets.

This pale horse will drive me through into unconsciousnessI’d force it too, to pull and rip and tear bare flesh, only its best to force me to want more than I ever have before.