Yin, Yang and Noir

And so black noir fucked me up.

I had to struggle, to fight; that is, to loosen you at the very end. Then I finally tore – was torn, now asunder. The body’s opening that accepts another so completely, the completion of creation. Noir sucked it as it would a thumb, a nipple, a prick and I was trying to make a sound in my throat but I held it for too long and so I broke too. Very often or so I thought, I’d imagined noir ripped open, and wondered who had done it and why. Then my fingertips running along its lines, lightly as I could, trying to read the smooth keloid tissue like Braille, as if noir would give up its secret to my skin. As if. Then I watched how noir erected. Into myself. I became a stranger in my own life.

Black noir is my middle name – I am the fucker.
I’d ask noir why. I’d not give up unless it turns inert.