Fluids

by May Leitz

I met and fucked a fag from Grindr.

Freud would probably tell me that I also haven’t been legitimately horny in months and am just beating my pussy to a pulp to spite my depression.

It feels so good to put yourself back together, but only because it feels terrific to take yourself apart.

I am alive, I guess.

I understand that it’s self-destructive, but I forgot how not to self-destruct.

Talking to you feels like dancing with Dahmer.

She’s never been in an online relationship, and she’s ready for it to suck dick. It’s going to suck dick.

AI will destroy us if it hasn’t already started to.

I can do anything I want to her now. She’s mine. I’ve tasted her insides.

“I can teach you how to like it.”

“I’m the Devil now.”

Then I realize what I’ve always known deep down: I really like pain. I love its intimacy. It’s the only thing closer than

love.

I’m so tired of love because it isn’t close enough. I deserve more than anyone can give me. I deserve everything. I deserve the end.

We’re a match made in hell.

All love ends. It’s inevitable. I think the inevitability of its demise makes people do crazy things to each other. We get so scared that our lover will leave us or hurt us, but in the end, that pales in comparison to what death can do. Love and its demise go hand in hand. We always lose the ones we love. Always. But tonight, I loved a woman to completion.

people are cruel,

I have to enter my darkness.