kyusss

I look at the crystal wine glass, it's swollen bottom cradled in my palm like a socket and joint. My thoughts trace the lip and I think about biting into the glass. I tap my bottom teeth on it when I take a sip, and let my tongue slide over the glass. The most tempting are the whisper thin ones, the ones that feel like they would shatter if you merely toasted them too hard. I wrap my hand all the way around and wonder how much pressure I could exert on it, before it shatters.

I smell the sulphur trail from a freshly lit match, I toy with the idea of letting it burn right down to my fingers. When I look at the ember after the flame has gone, I feel like pressing the tiny cinder into my palm. Maybe it could burn right through, like a colouring pencil pressed too hard on butchers paper.