the modern clifford

I was talking to a friend when she popped up

from behind and lightly tapped on my shoulder.

come in, everyone's

waiting for you - she said.

hung up the phone and

turned to behold her in a white tank top

and grey shorts. she was wearing silver

heels and those waxed legs and thighs screamed

with a velvet-like pitch. didn't have any make-up on,

but she looked ethereal in the moonlight's backdrop.

I walked up to their house and he emerged from the sofa

and put an emaciated arm around my neck, patted me on the

back and ruffled my hair a bit. we sat down and talked about

the book fair I'd been to, what books I bought, before the

conversation drifted into metropolitan cities and job

oppurtunities in the copyright industry. then dad took over

with women's safety in our city, and I kept silent, nodding

and sipping my fresh-lime soda and eating sweets. satiated,

i motioned to show me her room upstairs.

on the stairs, her cat, a garfield clone

named ginger winced and hissed at the

sight of me, running like the wind.

she showed me her poetry, a few paintings.

asked for her phone, and opened my blog.

we shared our trauma through words -

bipolar, anxiety, depression, molested,

bullied, suicidal, bad relationships, etc.

we'd gotten too close for comfort when

her mom arrived and requested us to come down

for dinner. dad and I left a while later.

I came home and went to my room

crashed on the bed

took off my pants and

jerked off to the image of her

in my brain.

I wanted to kiss her

(she's your cousin, twice removed)

hold her in my arms

(her cousin brother molested her)

say to the world I liked her

(she's a decade older than you).

but that's a rotten fantasy -

I'm only in love with my own imaginings

just like always.