Domenica Martinello Doe I’m staring, unabashed, at the wideness of your jaws; my eyes widen at the thought of my limp body spilling out from each corner of your mouth. Your Adam’s apple bobs wetly. My eyes ripple through the coarse darkness of hair that peppers face and throat and continues downwards past your buttons unbuttoned, patches of hasty brushstrokes. Maybe it’s the red pall of the heat lamp or the pints of beer, fizzy, loosening, but your eyes look black and easily spooked; I try not to make too sudden a move unsure now if this is some sort of trap and if so, whose?
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