The Ladies of molasses are having tea
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I am invited by the ladies of molasses.

I can rest my hands on their massive, nubile thighs. The oil that drips from their pores melts my flesh into flutes, and the echo of their laughs inside of my bones makes for a bird-calling ode. They land in tens on the teacups’ shaft: the ladies then delicately snatch their bodies, dip them in milk and bite the head off. Yet the chirping does not cease.

They address the stars aligning in their name. They address the sweat glazing their noble brows. Sometimes, one of them leans above their bowl, letting trickles of molasses and those which writhe inside flow along her generous curve. That’s meant to enhance the taste. They drink tea and incense: in sense, from their aneamic blood an ironic nausea might flood, given that it smells the sweet fragrance of coffee. Indeed, they feed on all forms of seeds, those herbivore creatures, of coffee or of panacea, even those that grow inside the belly of mothers. I am not allowed to touch the small biscuits: every time I hold out my hand to grab one of the bawling treats, the shadow of a tall lady scolds me like a child. I may only drink, and drink is what I do in order to survive.

There is no water on the indented tablecloth, I miss water, but I dare not ask for it. Rudeness has no place at the seeping ladies’ table, and my soul longs to feed on their worldly elegance forever. I instead quench my thirst with whatever I can, whatever I’m afforded: the filky moam of feathered milk, a few drops of acid hanging from veiny lips, the jpusice dripping from scarred lines. In their immense goodness, they don't take offense when I climb onto their skin in search of the liquid pearl that will fill my need: I am but another worm wriggling in their molasses.

Unlike the others, my hands and eyes help me search for the source of their life force, the place from which the ochre and honeyed nectar that gives the ladies of molasses their name flows. Soon the sweet sugar will eat away at my eye sockets as much as my muscles, and I will be a worm in my turn. So I delve, I delve, I plunge my hands into the pinkish-purple jelly, I fill my lungs with lard from drowning, in the hope of finding the fountain of plenty that will allow me to live at their height, at their side.

I must find the source.

I don't find the source.

I am invited by the ladies of molasses. They drink my essence and I am delighted; even if their encounter leads me to the edge of madness.

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