Fruit. Ripe nectarines come undone in your hands. I can separate the sordid details of flesh---jagged slick flesh---in this manner only. Can watch you press negative space into hard pale-orange. Watch you absorb dark pink into your fingernails, watch it stain your swelling lips as they compress and fall open, arhythmically, punctuated with sharp curved tongue glimpses.
This is where I fall apart. Where I burst open, internally ruptured, as though blunt clear fingernails were weapons, as though my internal organs were fragile overripe fruits too sensitive to resist the knifepoints of your dulling touch. But I will dull you. I will blunt your edges; you will leave me bruised.
Behind my eyelids, all flesh is purple just before black. Everything is raised in hypersensitive alertness---beaded flesh, as though caught in sweat, though too cooled to be shining. There is sparkle here, just dry gem-like sparkle of pale skin coming alive. Opalescent skin, like your eyes---reflecting, radiating. Shift.
Swallow. I can taste the ripped flesh on your tongue, my mouth empty and expectant. I can taste blood in my throat. I can feel, and not need to see, your eyes focused on disappearing fruit, unaware of hollowed seeds.