The skin is friction-prone and rashed always. Always a hair meant to breathe the air of the living refuses to leave the comforts of his pore. My hobby is squeezing those dirty rascals from their hiding spots, bleeding the hole and puss from pressure. From pleasure his head surfaces and slowly emerges a body strangely large for one whose life was lived solely underground. Sometimes I leave him standing on his feet, pert and trapped, but mostly pluck him from his misery. He was never meant for this world. From there I like to bring him back, dangle his little spine on my tongue, to taste myself and what I can do. Coarse hair, soft skin, he tastes perfect in mama's mouth. Come back into the womb, darling. You're not quite done yet.
By: Andrea Werhun
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