7:37

I have wanted to give beauty for days, sentences whose characters spill over each other, twisting like proteins; clean skin, warm eyes, smooth clothing, real gemstones, kindness, softness, knowledge and wisdom and limbs not pounding with with exaggerated muscle. I have wanted to fill my life with truth and discipline but ended up vomiting on my lap, my fingers covering my mouth but holding nothing, fluid and acid moving out of my lips, more honest than anything I have ever thought of creating. I need to be loved and taken care of, held when I am ill. I would rather cry on the bathroom floor than release some of my pride and ask for companionship.

I have separated myself from my craft and I do not know if it is because I need to concentrate on what I have already cut out from between my legs, what I have put on paper, what is in front of me and cracking inside my aching stomach. I am pushing too far, giving the world a stillborn idea that cannot move its body, the umbilical cord like wrapping paper. My mind is lobular, sick placenta.

I don't want to eat, I don't want to breathe, I don't want to clean off the film on my teeth or remove the crust around the corners of my eyes that make my intestines turn the coffee and water and sugar when I catch it in the mirror. My blood is jelly. I am in the place where husbands rape their wives.

I think the acne on my chin is imitating constellations; I will follow the red spots with a scalpel, mapping my face with scars.

I want to wear the fur of my dead childhood cat. I want the molars that are falling out of my grandmother's jaw. I want to cry until I find myself swimming in water at a place that I can only see with my eyes turned inwards, where mutilated, lost animals recognize me as their sibling.

I felt you watching me in my dream, naked in the blue-black tide, the waves full of eggs and insects crawling into my body. I am as fecund and vain as soil, sprouting life from my salted pores.