I am not turned on by masturbation.

My dreams scatter my mind wide open and I am still lying here catching my breath. Sprawled out on the pavement. A man loomed over me, his shadow blocking all vision, and he told me to remove myself at once. “Remove myself at once?!” I slurred in confusion. “Why, I do believe I’m as content as a cat and you’d best scratch beneath my chinny chin chin, dear friend.” He leered and kicked and I pulled myself groggily to my feet, lurched through the masses who rearranged their paths to accomodate my haphazard strides. This is ridiculous.

We are born and we die alone.

I made my way all the way down to Houston and 1st, clung at the railing overlooking the East River. A boy once he had taken me here, held me here. Funny how people who should know more will open themselves entirely to you, lie there naked and expectant while you close them back up calmly as a surgeon. “Now is not the time to be naked,” I would say and cock my head, smoking a dirty cigarette, mouth like dishwater and utterly worn. Those were not the days for sex.

We are born and we die alone.

“Give me a chance,” he pleaded and I could not look away. All my dreams are laced with you and I’m lost somewhere between joy and utter madness.

We are born.

Utter madness. My eyes are starving.