by Georgina Bruce
This man speaks with forked tongue. Becoming a snake, I slide around his body; skin slithering on skin and his mouth hissing into mine, his tongue flickering over mine. Some words are spoken with his hands and fingers, the sounds of vowels riding on our breath and the rasping of our bodies together. We are writing something, an old story, and we know the ending already. Tomorrow we will break open like the morning, cold and brave, smiling kindly. It is not love.
Georgina Bruce is the bearded lady.