Who Needs a Rope When I Have You?

That's a real choke-hold you have there. There's a precision to it; an unexpected strength from such a wobbly character. My trachea is unscathed, because you never really touched it, did you? You didn't have to because the back of my neck is just as susceptible to the suffocating power of touch. There won't be a yellowing bruise there, dotted like day old chicken skin, because that's the only part of my body that isn't allergic to pressure. But I feel you cutting off the oxygen to my head still as I sit alone, naked and battered as a peeled apple. I can feel the mold coming on too, and the gnats are starting to gather around me like I'm some sort of cornucopian Pagan sacrifice. I invited this dastardly play though; an action birthed from my own rottenness. This stinking feeling of confusion as to what I am, and who you are is almost as smothering as your grip on my brain stem, (elegantly coined 'nape of the neck') a few weeks ago. It was a grip not of blood lust, but of mechanical love. That is what the air smelled like anyways, I may have been mistaken. I would have preferred a fingernail cracking through the surface of my skin, breaking microscopic tunnels full of blood and plasma, in a brief and infinite burst of violent passion, to the murderous weight of your sedentary arm. I am choking and yet, I continue, because I know it's my own fucking arm that's twisted around and keeping my neck so heavy.