Janae Green is the non-fiction reader at The Boiler Journal and poetry editor of the Salmon Creek Journal (2012-13 edition). Her work has appeared in print, regularly, with coffee stains. She hates the smell and won’t drink it, but its okay as an ice cream or yogurt. She keeps Portland weird in the Pacific Northwest with her partner, artist Shea Bordo.
We tongued each other’s skin, gorged with cold-eyed stares, until our words dripped raw and the sheets paled. The bedroom became the stage, a wet place for screams that soaked the walls. In the daylight, our smiles were veiled with laughter-copies and twitches; our skin gray rinds from nights we spent never sleeping.
As a never-wife to Dan, our hunger was never satisfied. My hands crusted holes from the sobs that I gnawed. I wrote empty fictions on paper menus until my mother-father eyes asked me, “Was it worth it?
Blood is the same as vomit in heat; the texture is curdled, a spoiled meat scent. His head was cradled in red spew, hot and spilling down the sheets. He pulled our never-white life into fists, stained in black sweat. His mouth gaped, a squished U against the mattress. I stared until his lips widened.