After Me

Latterly, I've felt like an arthropod from some other planet full of arthropods in glittering glass buildings.

For my birthday, my lover gave me the gift of a bath: rather a rental like a pontoon: slick plastic walls carved as porcelain, featuring three jets on the left and right wings, one on the head, and two on the tail. I sprinkled in some francincense salt, and it was only as my thigh bulge began to prickle as astroturf that I saw I had two shockingly ornate bruises (a set of two on each underleg, mirrored like a faberge butterfly for a total of four gilded wings), whose purpley baby-rainbow was at that moment being penetrated by a hundred dollops of essential oil concentrate nibbling on shardlets of spicy salt. My pores became tunnels like the mouth to the throat, and opened themselves up for the little devils like so many cocks too big for them but attached to a man begging to be swallowed and known. Like the little girl at the poisoned well, we wail for justice, drain the water, and wait. And like a little girl with pigtails made of ink, I cried enough to fill it all back up again.

1) The galaxy in a butterfly's wing
2) The tail

A birthday is a terrible thing to waste, and I prefer a triple axle spectacular or bloody. When the men with the hats first came for my mother, they left their long, curious stick: a specialized flashlight with a tinted lens and circular bulbs. Submerging it like a sick a puppy, a knowing tear inched quietly down my cheek. The lens glared a fat teal through the water, showing gems of shivering waves and the softest flecks of white hair. It was the best birthday of my life. Her hair was red.

Latterly, when I pray (And I Still Do Every Night But Don't Tell My Lover Because He Doesn't Believe In You), I ask why I do not feel pain until my relative threshold has been crossed so far after the event that would have inflicted the painful hormonal change, or the supposed ability to acknowledge it and react to it appropriately.