I am a skeleton. I have no skin, no organs, no soul, no mind. Next to me lies a beautiful woman. She’s the kind of woman that you see in ancient Greek art — the kind of woman you see right before you die. She lays her gentle hand on my exposed sternum and leans in. Her soft lips press again the teeth rooted into my exposed skull. Not having skin makes hers feel twice as soft. We both lean in more intently this time. My skeleton hands wrap around the back of her neck and head, bringing her closer. As she lays astride me, I feel less like a skeleton. Her warmth fills my body like organs and layers on me like new skin. I can even feel blood pumping, even if just through my bone marrow. Neither of us have any intention of pulling away until one of the cracks in my decayed eye socket pinches her eyelid. “Ouch,” “Hold still.” As we gently wriggle, the hungry fractures in my skull multiply, taking larger and larger bites of her skin. Her nose becomes trapped in the cavity where mine once wa...
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