I and love and you

Ever Ferrer

 

I drew hearts in the peanut butter of your sandwiches. Stretched to be your pretzel. Still pulled a muscle(s), but never ruined the moment. Let you see other people to help fill the hole in your heart, the gaping maw in your loins that was still hungry five hours and seven orgasms later.


But it’s never enough. I’m never enough. Not brown, blonde, or red headed enough. Hair not long enough to tickle mashed mouths, then not short enough to style into matching freshly-woken-bedheads. Not even curly enough for you to waste away pulling ringlets down and watch them bounce up again and again until you realize it’s not straight enough to run your fingers through.


I’m too tall, too short. Not fashionably starved enough to fit the skinny jeans of your preteen dreams, yet not curvy enough, no hips like Cinderella for you to cum yourself to sleep thinking about. My sex too soft, my fuck too hard, but still not hard enough.Fuck you. Your stupid haircut. Your parents for making sure you had three meals a day to live.


I’m making a new partner. Stitching a real friend, a real lover, a real whatever they want to be. Knit from worsted weight yarn to make sure they’re tough enough to handle filling this bullshit hole in my heart, the gaping maw in my chest that’s never felt full five years and seven failed someone’s something – anything – later.


They won’t have eyes, or arms, not fingers, a mouth, nose, ear, nothing. Who would ask for so much?


I’ll never hurt their eyes with my slightly bent-ish nose. Never offend their touch with the hair I don’t shave from my forearms. Won’t ever wrinkle a nose at the smell of my skin, my six-hour breath when I kiss good morning. My voice will always be the most beautiful sound they’ve ever imagined.


They’ll never know I bite, chew, sip, swallow, burp, cough, sneeze, snore, scrub, comb, smooth, piss, fart. My shit will never stink.


We’ll never soil this love with any hugging, cuddling, snuggling, kissing, nuzzling, spooning, or fucking that could go wrong. Never sit waiting for mysterious crosses to decide whether or not they’ll appear on pissy sticks, never wonder what the verdict from the latest infidelity will be. Won’t feel longing, ache, never feel nothing.


We’ll thrill at the joy of sitting close to each other, cumming ourselves at the air tickling the spaces between us. It’ll be enough. I’ll be enough.


It.


Will.


Be.


Perfect.

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790