free association

In the absence of caring or loathing or wanting,

I let myself spill in blood and desire.

I watched as the boys washed away on a current of blood and knives, their bodies fragmented corpses and lust. All I could think was, this is hell.

All I could ask for was ravaging, and assault. Sweet breath. Cruelty and beauty. Father, church and all. Religion like numbing cream, I move my fingers without thinking, I touch your body without pausing to ask of the other girl. You hate me. You want nothing, I want everything and death and life and childhood, I was thinking of moving away moving fast moving slow. I lack motivation and cry in sleep and listen to the music and watch the paint dry like wet guitars in the woods behind cello in the commune where my grandmother grew up. Red liquid uninspired.

Do you regret taking away my feeling because you made me hurt too much, I couldn't bear it? Now I miss the hurt and the art and the depth of aching. My stomach used to twitch with pleasure as if our own breaths were merging, I'm so tired of writing poetry about you. At three you sat with the man in the moon who watched a little girl grow crooked.

I think of my body being pushed against the wall.

I think of being drained and ravaged and carved like metal into sculpted skin and bones that someone cruel and kind envisioned, and they knew that my blood would fuel the carving.

This world, could you write of it?

There was once an old man, his eyes flew slow over the body of a blanket, empty beneath the cotton. Empty beneath a wooden frame. Empty behind those eyes. He missed me, he did, he missed the way our skin would tear against each other.

Let yourself remember.

I am in the woods, a squirrel watching. I listen to the art, and it is beautiful.