The Ring (of Fire)

Looking over at the shirt again. I’m famished. No other way to put it.

It’s caked in a solid 3 years worth of sperm. Every day I look at the insufferable thing, I remember the sensations leading to its current texture, which is something akin to a dried piece of wet cardboard covered in sandpaper and cat litter.

Some people use tissue. Or a towel. Or hell, even baseball mitts.

I can’t reconcile using any of the above. Too many memories with that ol’ beige bastard. Of course, it wasn’t originally beige. It was a terribly fucking loud shade of yellow. The kind of yellow you see listed in sex offender registries on account of it being a visual rape attempt.

I grab it, as I always do. There are horses on the screen, and my pants are off. Two ends of the shirt are connected by last nights stream.

Without thinking, I pull. A sense of whimsy would come over me if I saw sparks any other time. But the shirt has ignited, and my hands are on fire. Burnt eyebrow hair and hardened semen smoke fill the night sky.

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