I wasn’t really after this type of subject matter, rather, I was a good life journo, reporting about where so-and-so goes and what time of year and what get ups they wore and who designed the lobby floor. I didn’t project that I’d have the skill set to infiltrate a coven, survive and tho injured, bring you the in-depths. I feel like I staid a little longer than five night’s at Freddy’s, then I met you and you wanted to know about my corpuscles, my cavities, my corona of light, penumbra of dark. You wanted clean, dimple-less arcs, you wanted sonorous melody. You wanted crisp greens, firm tangerines. You wanted my verbal ascents, my American street sense. You wanted my beverage order, my self-medication preference, my omissions, poetic permissions, my wish list, my to do list, my marketing receipts, my tally on the headboard in my head, what blood type were my panty’s red. You wanted my call log, my repair list, my lusts (for the chest or the bust?). You wanted my Earth inclusive food to eat, to laugh and one day say “put your money away, you cooked so my body is your treat, and believe me I brought you something good to eat”. You wanted to wind me into what grinds me to a halt, then have examined and diagnosed the exhaust then go sending them in full assault: kidnap, fraud, illegal aid, Spanish Mother, Women in Distress, the police, adopt, corrupt, SHOOT SHOOT, BANG DEAD, skin-on-skin, syndromes, psychology, TRUST the DEPARTMENT, I think you practically said. To save time you flooded me 6 rivers at a time, screaming, demeaning, you even had me seething, clawing the wallpapering in the rooms of my mind. If I say thank you and I hate you at the same time do I get another illness assigned? Where is my morphine? my laughing gas? I go into a vestibule of yellow, I let my lashes do the thrashes. To tease away the laughing rafters I pretend I am getting paid to renovate this outdated cave.
I feel bleached in the dirty crevasses of my vault, which I took sanctuary in. I’m mad that you cleaned them, embarrassed that you’ve seen them, mortified that one day your eyes might touch my eyes and naked I’d stand without secrets and lies to hide behind.
