The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any center to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it’s not true, there was no one.
“So, her secret. What’s her secret? She shapes you so special, like you’re the answer, the only one who could ever know it, who could hold it in the chest of the self. The only self that mattered, the self she cuts you into. I say yes tell me, I come closer, I feel her warmth on me: The endless sea of mouth, the lining of the lip which shapes her a physical self despite the woodenishness you could not detect unless it warped you, which it would, if you were near enough.”
Lisa Marie Basile | Nympholepsy