When you tickle my torso with the scalpel,
it feels like the Misfits’ Last Caress:
you pull away skin, reveal the promise
to tear my nerves and twine them
around your fingers, taut as friendship
bracelets I used to make in middle school.
You were taught how to be a man,
how to hum like Patrick Bateman
but with better music. I swallow,
pretend I understand this: sexual revolution
is a 1980s slasher movie poster, and I’m stuck
out of time, waiting for the next Scream sequel,
out of time, holding your left hand, out
side by side I see you scrape away at yourself.
You are a body without organs,
without anything but dead air inside:
it’s time for you to finally feel something,
my hands now raised, frozen over my face.

Justin Holliday

Justin Holliday

Justin Holliday is an English lecturer and poet. His work has appeared in Rag Queen Periodical, gobbet, Impossible Archetype, Lehigh Valley Vanguard, Vanilla Sex, and elsewhere.
Justin Holliday

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