Succubus

…Not as well as I thought.

I spend the night in the high hot arms of succubus; the brazing morning, the blazing morning, the morning of cough drops and cough fits, rolling against her and away.

…And in the day, the real light, the gray, I am sick.
I tell myself, Go to the gym.
Then I tell myself, No.

This is what the gym was for. So you could go round with your sickness; so that you could dance with your demon lover.

You don’t practice the day of the game.
Either the practices have done their work or they have not.

…She’s not really a succubus; not really a demon lover.
It is just that in this fever she burns.

She is a product of my heated brain; my imagination; of a virtual world; she is a blog; a photograph; a collection of haikus; she is a story I told myself when I was asleep and meant to dream; she is a fantasy I forgot to have and has risen up suddenly to demand her time; she is wispy; ghostlike; and she tells me through her actions that I meant to sweat it out.

Sickness and everything else.
That I meant to be emptied.

…And she almost leaves almost real marks on my flesh and earrings on my nightstand.