Monday, August 7, 2017

picture book.

this girl's name is white, five years old, from the suburbs, where all the houses are uncomfortably close to one another. the houses chant, taunt, etc., "girl you'll still be a virgin even after you fuck a million guys."
house is looked in on but she don't care- too young to be rewired by paranoia. got "circe" tattooed on her ass. got "animal mother" buzzed into her hair.
too young for the news, computer, or thinking money is anything other than stupid. gets all angry at herself 'kuz she dunno how to pay attention, or how to retain information, unless it's the kind picture books are made of. all she wants anymore is picture books...she knows that's where god is at.

it's dark out and she's awake. the animal, cute friendly jaguar, whose eyes she sees through is asleep. these are his dreams in which he gets to know her, which is weird.

this is the kinda girl you'd expect to never figure out potty training even though she wasn't a crack baby (per se).
girl that you laugh at because incidentally exposing failure (inhibition isn't her forte) is her ultimate truth. everyone has a shitty concept of failure except her.

she looks like meat with hair on it and is that. if you drew her, that's what you'd make of your drawing. example: she talk about sex. she fucks everyone very subtly. does she mean to? (bitch ya know ya mean to.) "i'm a goddess of fertility. of course i fuck everyone."

she's a brat, at the end of the day. to some, this means she's abusive. (whatever this means is missing.)

kinda girl that, while sitting on a toilet, gets distracted, and presents either breast to an imaginary friend coming down from the heavens. an old friend that isn't real anymore. long hair envelopes her- this is spider choosing her, spinning her in his web, saying shit like, "i've got an act of love for ya." she likes spiders like she likes doggies (meaning a LOT).

"i love you, here, lemme show you," she says to him. they both take off their glasses to see that they're really seein'. as if they're preparing for sex.

she's singing to him about giving him her milk like a lullaby, except nothing comes out of her nipples. listen: this isn't because of him. just somethin' she wasn't ever taught how to do. therefore, she will never be able to give him life, and he will not be able to serve as her reflection. this is somehow how she was taught to communicate and is the only thing she cares about. he's mad, throwin' a tantrum, but he wouldn't be if he would just open his eyes and see something outside of himself. he's see she's a lovely young lady. if he made it to that point he would just know.

girl isn't afraid of going crazy. isn't afraid of death, rape, or selling out. likes high places, the ocean- there are accolades attached to getting to know these things. she's pregnant with wondering if, since she's so unafraid of things that seem authentic to her, if it's really fear she feels in regards to anything else. maybe she just feels authenticity is getting confounded and we're letting it.

"just wait momentarily," she says to mr. spider, about her nipples not producing milk. "it's just been a while is all. i just need to warm up. gonna get this thing to work." she's still bein' spun in his web though it's more like being embraced by heaven. he's still there with her acting like he's not spinnin' her in his web.

then she, or, let's be real, i, have a dream in which i pull down my diaper in which a stillborn bird, so serene, is bloodied, is sayin' "mama" on repeat. at this moment, i begin looking up schizophrenia symptoms on the internet, trying to fit into them, like i'm trying to fit into clothes that are too tight. this is what i'm hungrier for- sickness. since sickness is fucked up the only way to make sense of it is to make it become everything about you. i'm takin' my clothes off. i'm givin' all my stuff away and hoarding the organs of other animals into my body, late at night, when i'm alone. extra stomachs so that i'm a peace-loving bull. zillions of hearts so that i don't know whose pet frog i am.

this is what sex is like when you're unsure of it. and you have a daughter from it, always.

spider, ya didn't need to try to persuade me into your embrace, but ya did anyway 'kuz you was havin' fun. you said shit to me like, my essence was something lunar, therefore my shadow don't exist. thereafter, ya painted me with your silvery, glittering come, so that i could move forward in armor. with their hella obsidian vibes, lookin' at myself in your zillions of eyes was something like scrying- i felt so small (and ugly, obvs) about myself next to you. being human is the most fucked up thing. at that moment, you scurried away, presumably back into the linen closet.

maybe the jaguar woke up, so i had to continue without magick, unless i was gonna cure myself with my addictions.

plants die of frost and butterflies fly south: winter is comin', when we must zero in on hunting, thinking only of meat. and i can't wait to be suitable again- wanna see the cold make sense, and to see things how i feel them. wanna feel okay with noticing distance before anything else. i hate to say this, but i wanna see other people experience this, too, so i feel a little less anomalous about myself.

btw, i'm still coated with come. after sittin' around for forever, refusing to bathe, i turned white. i got used to feeling like i was wearing a full-body cast. the absence of color became me, some rationalizing part of me said.

my name is selene. nobody knows they're prayin' to me like how they do.