My landlord banged on my door today. He said the pipes are groaning again. I told him it’s not the pipes. It’s the building remembering the weight of all the bodies that have pressed against these walls. He didn't understand. He just wants the rent.

I gave him the last of my grocery money. Now I'm sitting here with an empty fridge and an empty cunt, sketching the way his face looked when he came on my tits last week. The way his jaw went slack. The way he whispered he'd pay me back and I knew he wouldn't, and I didn't care because the look on his face was worth more than dollars.

Sometimes I think I'm just a vessel for other people's release. A place where they leave their heaviness. I eat the memory of their cum and it sustains me. Or maybe I'm just starving, and my art is the only thing that fills the hole.