divinity as temple ruins under starry skies
Indigo Carter
After Shyla Jones’ Garden Girl
sliced the first dream lover in his hands, cut through the slits of oranges and lemons and let
the juice whisk over the raised table. boy uttered his present lover’s name like a prayer, hum
mirroring cicada songs. he imagined the glass shards refracting light onto strands of hair like
an immaculate marble statue with wobbling genitalia, deep, thick and hairless that your
mouth nearly chokes on. boy dripped the juice over his hands and anointed them like it was
sacred, as if it’s very nature would immortalise into his wounds. he memorised the
movements of bleeding seasons; he let typhoons of crush infatuations blow him over to the
floor, but now boy was standing on a marble floor wearing a plumpurple toga and head raised
to a heaven he could not reach.
and so now he plunged his anxieties into Chaos and pressed a hand against a golden chalice
with grapevine wine and brought it to his lips and he breathed it in, smelled its cloying
sweetness and tasted it. he salvaged in the droplets of vapour pressing onto his mouth, a flood
of romance entering the chasms of his body.
breathless, boy drank more and let this holy water bless his body, exist as damp sweat on his
thighs. he fell onto the temple’s floor, freckled light shining from each glass and blossoming
his brown limbs with an aura and then his mind swallowed the dreams of slick red hair and
dimpled cheeks. a honeybee landed on his loose tongue and let sweet nectar flow into it
like the remnants of an
imagined lover.
Indigo Carter is a writer and a rose with many thorns -- their work aspires to cross the haunting with the beautiful. They are a fan of masala chai with noodles. Like Shara Wheeler, they love monogrammed letters, scented candles and secret puzzles. Find more at indigopoison.carrd.co