By Vana Dea — 08 May 2025

Hormonal Fever Dreams

It’s 95 °F.
A damp
sump pump.

No way
out-
but you
slice, slowly,
severed

tentacles
fresh

off the ice.
I lie
here,
catching
con
den
sa
tion

off your
knife.

Could you press it
slightly
further?

Draw something
to blister
the atmosphere?

You drink
2%.

Through the
jug rack,
you saw me
familiar.

It’s a
busy day,
and still,
you shatter through
everything.

Freezer ice
slicks
down my back,
and our whole stock
curdles.

Slipping inside,
it’s
soft now.

Quick time,
half time,

no time
like the present.

If I move in
and you step
back
it will be
too
late.

It’s curfew,
midnight.
Will you stay?

Strip light,
press tight,

fucker,
admit it.
You just
can’t
keep
up.