Sweetheart Powder

East Asian women cut the best watermelon. Extremely particular about which fruit they cut, knocking on it, inspecting sun spots. My fiancé works a coffee shop cattycorner to a woman who sells slices,

"One dolla, one dolla!" all day.

He gives me cash, I delightfully run over, get thick pieces for us.

There are bizarre moments in time I've become desensitized to. What once was overwhelming, now meshed into the daily. At night in bed I check to see what stuck in my memories.

Grumpily trudging to a brunch shift last weekend, extra agitated with the J skipping my stop. As I slam onto the train bench there are 3 queer men next to me all dressed for a beach day.

In tiny swim shorts, beach umbrella in hand, turning to his friend, "Do you ever see pigeons like...in the woods?"

"No, they're pretty reliant on humans since we fully domesticated them and then ditched them."

"..."

"Did you know rats basically stay in the same 3 block radius of where they were born and because of that the uptown rats and downtown rats have become genetically different rats."

"Do you think they're friends?"

The boys laugh and carry on with their small talk. I feel privileged I got to hear a little piece of their lives. I share the rat fact with many of my own friends in coming months. I'm excited for their beach day. I think of them lounging, while I serve in Nolita.

Some nights I'm performing, lavished with drinks, praise, looking down at expectant eyes with spotlight turned to me. But most nights I'm eating leftovers off plates of the rich, who have no idea how these restaurants really run. (Your escargot comes out of an industrial snail water filled can).

One man refuses to pour his own water, calling me over each time his drink is empty. Another whines that we didn't serve him the moment he sat down. I watch a girl pose with her cake for over 10 minutes, pretending to blow out the candle. The wax drips onto the cake. She packs up the cake to go, which sends me into a disturbed existentialism.

Being in this material world juxtaposing my lower middle class one pulls me in all wild directions. I've no interest in being a Dharma Bum. Seeing all parts of this disgusting, sticky, wonderful society drives me in and out of madness, yet I'm addicted all the same.

It feels a bit like an inside joke, seeing how the wealthy live, knowing most of these expensive places are mostly a farce. Being broke has always suited me better. I felt pretty rich in love and experience. Even sort of liked serving the rich, a chance to chat with some of them, be in their world a bit. Anyway when you're broke but charming a lot tends to fall in your lap.

That's how I end up in line with Theo for a closing party on behalf of New Inc. Museum. Theo's braids are long tonight, wild black pants with all this fabric hanging off. She's in a tie dyed bleach shirt, a leather jacket. I'm in a tight pink textured tank top, tucked into a plaid school girl skirt. Fish net ankle socks with oil spill pumps, usual treasure trove of jewelry adorned.

We're always dressed well, frankly, often the best. It can put us into a lot of interesting situations. Theo is on the list tonight but isn't sure she can bring a plus one. When confronted by the bouncer I confidently give my name. He looks, asks me how to spell it, looks again. He lets me in anyways. That's why I dress well.

The elevator goes to the 30th floor, opens into a huge plush white carpeted room. "They must be rich to have us partying on white carpet," I tell Theo.

The entire back wall is windows that overlooks the water to downtown Brooklyn. There's DJ's, an open bar, free cheeseburgers, artists abound. I dance and chat all night. Next week when someone texts about my performance space, I won't remember who he is. I'll be back to eating cold scallop from plates trying to recall what I said drunk and passionate.

After work I'll have to take the Bowery J home, often a hot spot for those who never leave madness. I'm nearly always left alone. But tonight as I stand and read a man erupts violently and slowly staggers towards me. "Great.", I think.

With one hand gingerly wrapped around my pepper spray, he gets to me, yelling obscenities, stops,

"What are you reading?"

"Oh, Hotel Splendide. It's like...about some restaurant in New York in the 20s. I don't really know if I'm liking it yet."

"Hm."

He staggers past me, starts to yell again. I laugh to myself. I love it here. The richest, poorest surround me and I feel connected to it all. All of these people bound, in some way or another.

Some of these nights end in the arms of my lover. I tell him of my adventures, thoughts, ideas on what I've experienced in this city. He will kiss my eyelids, we'll scheme about our futures, him with no real care at how it unfolds so long as we can lie together and decompress it in our sighs.

I'm a giant strawberry in a clown fashion show. I throw my shoes into the tracks because I've stepped in human shit. My friends gather, eat together for each holiday. I cry couched near a bar because I can't take it anymore. I shove duck into my mouth by the trashcan at work because I forgot to eat before I clocked in. I take off all my clothes at a Valentine's gathering. I have sex in the street. I'm in a 100 year old diner. I see an underground wrestling show. I try to slow down and connect with my friends. They love me. We love one another. I feel fortunate.

I'm consistently frustrated by being a writer yet being unable to express what emotion is. Laid in bed whispering it desperately, making love, showing it, yet always in my own skin. Entirely frustrating.

I was trying to hit every coffee shop in Denver, apparently the most stimulating thing for me to do at the time. Walked back and forth in the sunshine looking for Queens Eleven; some small hole in the wall spot I, and seemingly no one else, had heard of.

Threw open black glass door to near complete darkness. A low-lit, candle-lit coffee shop and bar, vibe unlike any other. You didn't have any sort of customer service voice. I was immediately struck by your demeanor, its stark contrast to what I had seen in Denver so far. It brought me to something I knew before.

I can't remember what we said, I only recall feeling shy, coy while we spoke. You complimented my coat. Even bashful, I felt my haughty nature takeover.

I was literally the only person there. Nestled into a booth, typing vacation plans (soon to be cancelled by a pandemic) when the power went out. It was already nearly night in the space, so this seemed irrelevant. You placed candles around me laughing at my non-reaction. You inevitably closed for the day. Later, when we would recount how we met to others, I'd learn my apathy at the power going out was strangely appealing to you.

Tangled in hot breaths, slick skin, our souls pressed against our fronts begging to touch one another. This could only be done in another realm, yet we were poured into these human bodies to find another way.

Chemicals get in the way. Autonomy controlled by urges that take a lifetime to mitigate. Indulge in balance. Then there's our egos, emotionality, our ever pure form with much to sift through.

We were born into fire. Bounding from one experience to the next, pinballing into each event and space, no being would contain our essence.

We ran into one another, knowing there was fun to be had. Separated yet together, we magnetically burst; at first only understanding our yearning and moans.

Sex with you blew us into another realm. When we fucked there was no insecurity, ego; our bodies took over, our blood the tide, pushing and pulling us into one another. To feel into you, your glossy skin, every inch of the body became the other's. It left our minds catching up only after we had finished, smoking and chatting about how excellent it was to make love to each other.

We indulged in life. We loved life. Together, we loved life. Its simplicities and beauties. The challenges and misery it gave. Our biggest commonality, was thoroughly enjoying the human experience.

Me with you, you with me, we gave each other the space to express, tumult, party, leave, come back. In moments together we processed our experiences, turning over our emotions and ideas about the world.

We came from different flaws. These could clash in a way that left me seething and you apathetically brooding. But in discussing these flaws we poked holes in our egos, for better or worse now there's no way to know. Because the more time we spent spun up and whispering, the more we built a new "other half."

This term "other half", was something we had scoffed at. We did things our own way, own speed, be it fucking others or moving in and out of one another's home. I had never fully felt understood before, at least not without spitting fights and splitting apart. With you there is no rule, no time, no rush. No pressure to prescribe a life path or own each other. No reason to live together or not. Through enjoying humanity, our life paths opened up to us separately, allowing us to excitedly chatter about our hopes and dreams.

Be it performing or stripping, begging for change or busking, opening a business or serving, anything the other wanted to do was accepted as long as joy and passion were involved.

As time passed through our tears and giggles, this other half was forming. We knew one or the other would always be okay on this plane, but why split apart what was only net good? Hearing your stories enlightens me, now your ideas, responses voice, became something of my own.

Cold tap dribbles thin stream of icy water, refreshing droplets, sparse, life-giving. Hot tap is a steady stream of petroleum oil.

3 generations of pall bearers with me suited up in the coffin. I'm in between worlds baby, reality toying with my soul from the start.

Dusty, streaked mirror, grimy dirt where I stand in the tub. Usually shower with my clothes clinging to skin. Wet dog my whole life, wet towel in the conversation.

Cereal box pours sewing needles into my bowl. Typical. Spoon it up with tepid milk, colander stomach.

Wash down my sins with water, right tap is frozen, left tap is spider eggs. Naturally.

Onto the cracked asphalt, bend down, poking my eye through a crack in the sidewalk, that dirty little man, dirty ass apron, pushes my caffeine thimble through to me. Stick another dime down the crack. He'll give the silver to some bitch late at night.

Bouncers throw me out of bars every night. Say I don't match my ID, no way I was ever that pretty broad on the plastic. On the train to the DMV I count 3 black-eyed women, 6 pairs of bloody panties, and 9 trios of praying mantises eating infants.

Department of Motor Vehicles is down 10 flights of cement stairs. Past all the stains an elevator door slides opens revealing a rusted metal door. Behind that a ratty haired teenager looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. I step into creaking cage, with flickering moth bulb dangling above us. Their hair wasn't ratty. It was a rat. It presses "-19". That is the sole button.

I hear the wailing long before the doors open. Wails aren't as grating as the electronic voice piercing through the air calling out letters and numbers of the next in line.

Security man with stabbing stubble gets his sweat on me as he prods my pockets and still-wet clothes. He seems hardly able to breathe. Soft involuntary grunts come from his throat. While he inspects my shoes I suck in and spit onto the back of his head. It sizzles and dries up. He huffs trying to get back from my shoes to eye level. I step on him, over him.

Wails. "NOW SERVING 40TLP2". Weeping. "NOW SERVING 999KKMB". The cold electronic voice. No woman has ever sounded like this! I told myself I would not cry this time with all of the others. It's shameful and disgusting. The sobbing keeps the cashiers grinning their sick little grins.

"NOW SERVING HL52TQ". At the first desk an ancient dust hazes my view of an old crone. Her smile is wide with cigarette teeth, corners reaching the tips of her pale eyes. It's deeply unsettling. "NOW SERVING RTEZAJM" Her bones creak as she hands me 54 crumpled, inky forms to fill out. She then beckons to a small, deep, black hole. "PENS", it says on the hanging sign.

Hole goes up to my wrist as I grope around for a pen. Instead I feel wet, crawling, thousands of legs, stinging, pinching, teeth. Tears spring to my eyes. I hear the woman's teeth as her smile impossibly widens. I grasp a pen-shaped object but when I pull it out it's a cold black centipede. "NOW SERVING 77777777". It takes me two more tries before a pen finally comes. I get blood on my papers.

I stumble into line but can hardly keep the papers straight. "NOW SERVING XLR#$%" They fall from my grip, sometimes spontaneously combust, I can't focus with the electronic voice echoing around the room. Eyes blurring with wet, taste of sulfur it dragged down my cheeks, this fucking place.

I relive my life as I wait my turn, but every good memory is replaced with shadowy figures whose faces I can't make out. "NOW SERVING ᄅϛ∀˥S⅄"

Man behind the second desk is clean, big coiffed hair, with a newscasters voice. His teeth are too bright and perfect, there seem to be 80-90 in his wide, wide, wide grin. "SMILE!", he says, before I've even reached the counter. He blinks. It takes me 46 seconds to recover from the flash.

Time spins around me, whispers of what is and what is not flows through my nervous system, an infant glares at me, I picture several versions of myself all as miserable as the current one, the man's tooth cracks from his grin but immediately fixes itself, I was buried here once, a flower grew from my mouth.

Now I'm on the train again. When I look down a new ID is in my hand. I hate the DMV but it's now a distant haze in my always confused memories.

I arrive back home at 3 AM. I'm parched. The cold tap, water flows backwards and won't go into the cup. The hot tap just steadily pours out cat fur. Tomorrow I'll give another dime to the little coffee prick. Routine is good for you. Tomorrow night I'll finally have a drink at the pub.

Thick dust hazing my view, queen bed raggedy, creaking, dry feet painfully stretch on wood floor. Dragging, I slip into silk pink dress. Short, sexy dress you always loved; you'd still stroke this dark eyed, gaunt faced, shell. You'd breathe life into my veins, I'd inject you into myself, we'd buy a new mirror, uncracked, uncaked from grime.

I've only known decay since you've been away. Mouth full of cavities and worms.

Today is special. Iced a cake for the occasion. Dress is a bit stained from a wine-sobbed night, but you would love it all the same. Little blood on the cake, but you'd eat it all the same. You were good like that. Kept my ink at bay.

Widow never without black, tights pulled, garter snapping, running down our old wood stairs, I slept until the celebration!

Late at night I prepared this party, the cake, candle, red wine. Old velvet tablecloth covers the table.

Stepping towards table, ink fills my head, sob erupts, swallow it down, today is a *celebration*! Your day! It's your day, baby! Won't you haunt me today, baby? You came and 30 years later, left the same day, veil's so thin, won't you please touch me today, baby?

Biggest, widest smile, show you all my teeth, I'm so pleased to celebrate with you my love, my angel, my divine. Sink down into the chair to face your sweet black and white photo, in that ornate gold and white frame you liked.

Smile falters as I light candlestick, but I'll force it back on for you baby, don't worry, just breathe into me a little bit.

Cake for you, cake for me, iced white, circular rainbow sprinkles, perfect cake for celebrating. Hardly remember putting this party altogether. I lift my fork and knife. Hardly recall placing a butcher's knife to eat the cake, how silly of me, darling. I have to admit, some red wine drank, before the party in between my tossing and turning!

Slide my finger on cake, roll icing down my face to cover a little tear, I can't cry at your party. Fork slowly separates the piece, I lean close to your photo, let's eat, let's eat, let's eat, yet, the fork narrowly misses my mouth, bread dribbles down my chin. A bit of anger flows out of me as I slam my fork onto the table. What an absurd little mistake, I just want to have a party with you!

Fork trembles in my hand causing me to miss my mouth again, I throw the chair back, eyes hot, I cannot cry at the party, I pace, shake, throw my head back, this is a party not a funeral! NOT a FUNERAL! That already happened! We already had a funeral together! Why don't you eat first? Eat this cake I made, it's your favorite.

Why don't I drink a little more wine; you should try the cake first anyways. I pick some up, feed your photo, look at you, you've got cake all over your face! Who needs a fork, I can eat with my hands too! I can eat with you. I can eat this cake too. A whole slice in my hand, I'll celebrate your birthday today, eat the cake, eat the cake, eat the cake, widow.

A snarl and sob, sweet slice slams onto the ground, now icing splat, I just don't know what's wrong with me baby! Wine spills over the velvet and silk, down my neck, a bottle explodes. I hold your photo, slide onto your chair, pull you close, lick icing off your face, you inch closer to my legs.

I haven't thought of anyone but you, I've had no pleasure since you've been away. Won't you just lick me a little...

Frame slams back onto the table, this is no fucking way to behave at a party! Huffing, blurs, what happened to our slices? I'm sorry to be so angry at your party, but now knife is in my fist, stabbing your chair over, over. I don't mean to be consumed by this rage. Won't you just calm me down again? Steel upon my neck, I can show you something special, a gift for my lover.

I'm climbing onto the table, a gift for you. Dress slips off my shoulders, showing you body you've surely missed. We can be entwined again, point of knife between my collar bones. A little pressure and a break, slide it down to my belly.

Hot, the liquid pouring out of me, I've drank a little too much, love. I've got to lie down. I lay onto the table, and hold your photo close. I didn't want to cry on your day but it's just overtaking me. I know you would hold me, why won't you let me feel you?

I'm hardly awake, a little too drunk, I think. Wine, blood all the same to me. I pick up the candle, pour the wax onto my skin. Its pricks wake me up enough to slide down onto the floor with you. I haven't even shown you the whole cake yet. I reach under the table, but oops, shouldn't the cake say "Happy Birthday"?

"I Miss You" scrawled on top, you probably would've laughed. But now I'm soaked with tears and blood, dig my hands into the cake, rubbing it onto my arms, face, torso, I feel further from you than ever. I wish I could stop this wailing. I don't think God will let me be with you. All my fault, us eternally apart.

Life with its many monotonous tasks that must be done. I've tricked my brain into enjoying cleaning. Sometimes I punish myself for no reason. I fold my laundry in silence, rainy gray spilling into the bedroom, no music, because I don't think I sit in quiet enough.

Each morning I sweep and eat some variation of eggs, fruit, and cheese. Is being able to do this why I quit my 9-5? To spend an hour each day in tiny romantic moment, little bit of bliss, not afforded to the person rushing at dawn.

The eggs are usually soft scrambled, a tomato cut up with oil and herbs, banana slices on silver dollar pancakes.

Some things I make meticulous; social dates on my calendar, sweeping cat hair in the morning. Other things I randomly let astray. Cat knocked melatonin pills off the night stand, spilling it over the floor. I take one off the floor each night, thinking each time of the 30 seconds it would take to clean.

Bedroom always in some state of mess. Subconsciously cliché metaphor for inner and outer personas (living room is spotless). Maybe motivation is in the form of not letting others down. Caretaking is the ultimate reason there is no altruism.

In my free-time guilt I feel I'm not allowed to purely relax. Is my joy not enough? Purpose may be naught and yet, like all humans, I instinctively seek.

Smoking and spitting off the fire escape in light gray mist. Romanticize my life, but when pulled in too many directions I become agitated. Books have a theme, purpose, style. I can't commit to a fucking thing. Hardly even the love of my life.

I threaten to split every few weeks or so. Something in the city has brought back a craziness in emotionality. I beg him to be around me. Once we fucked on the 41st floor overlooking the city. Sometimes we fuck in the street.

Usually we fuck in my always-messy-room. I apologize for the mess, he says, "You say it's a mess, but this is just your room. It's always like this." Doesn't he know I sweep it before he comes?

I wonder if a slice of life is relatable or boring as shit. Most of life is actually a lot of nothing. Why blame the social media, phone laze?

Maybe I like the mess because it's one area that can be cluttered and dirty, where I can be filthy and thinking alone, only me, invite only. Waking up my eyes flit between art I've hung, scattered cat food on the floor, black silk hanging artfully, dust gathering in the corners.

I have always been afraid of bugs. Of any size or variety, even glowing firefly struck ice into my veins, dilated my pupils.

When faced with one, I would gingerly place opaque cup upon it, awaiting a day a friend could come remove it; as even their corpses are too much for me. Living alone in the Summer, anywhere from 1-8 cups would litter the house. Sometimes I had to drink from a small bowl.

In the case of a flying bug, I would seal the door to the room, beg friends to come over. Once I slept on the couch for 3 nights.

The air is warm, day sits on my glowing skin. Beautiful objects sit around my home. Nothing can be trusted. My sweat feels feverish, yet I am enticed and curious.

I sit folded on the couch for breakfast in sunlit living room. A small yet juicy blood orange sits on Turkish rug. I regard it in bewilderment.

Long spindling black legs delicately emerge from the sides of the fruit. It picks itself up and crawls towards me on the couch. Tears spring to my eyes. I move up and over the couch, watch the orange gently move towards me.

I ponder what sins have brought me to this ornate punishment. In the kitchen, flower lies in vase. The petals are wings to some demon creature, its eyes green sheen with delicate web stringing from it.

I am so charmed by evil, beautiful disgust. So curious by these creatures that only want to suck me dry. My blood is mine, corner of my eye I see the delicate legs crawling towards me again, I'm forced into the laundry room.

Old rustic windows, painted shut forever ago. I've always feared its corners, tiny inhabitants. There's more webbing than usual. 1000s of tiny eyes. 10,000 pointed legs. They blink as one, witness so many of me, distorted and off-color. The fruit draws near me again, I wretch the door open into my backyard.

I rarely mow my lawn, for terror at the millions of *things* thrown in the air by the blades. They have always watched me. In attempt to get away I trip over a long-dead log, left by a storm last year.

Immediately they crawl out, droves of them, millions of them, out of the log, larvae, adults alike, translucent purple bodies, to sleek brown, glassy, pincers on their asses that they wiggle in the air, anticipating me.

Wrack with sobs as I'm overtaken, one burrowing in my leg shoots minor needle pain through me, but now hundreds swim into me as I jerk helplessly around. My skin is torn, they're in my veins, every part of me...

Once in grade school, girl with sinister smile approaches me, asks if I'd like to see what's clasped between her hands. Meekly I nod, leaning closer to her hands. Opening them there are thousands of ladybugs. The black dots upon the red seem to create a skull looking back at me. Their bodies crawl over one another with no thought or feeling, they fuck, nibble her fingers, suffocate beneath one another.

I scream and kick and cry. Nightmares about this event every month or so. Each time the bugs are more sinister than the last, sometimes her hands are full of blood and they whisper to me that I will be like them.

Bugs from the log crawl onto my torso. I'll be a stain on the ground. The sun warms the parts of me not shadowed in crawling mass. It's a beautiful day. Seizing and spitting, my eyes loll around. The blood orange skips and floats to me. It's legs frantically crawl over the army. Through delirium I begin to laugh.

I grab the fruit and gently peel a segment of the orange into my hand. One of the most beautiful things I've seen.

It'll be like I never even existed.

The fireflies in the jar die by morning. Ones that live care not for the corpses in the prison. I hate my friends that day,

I place the segment of fruit in my mouth, where several of the bugs crawl in. This was always going to be my fate, so why wouldn't I be a feast?

Lazy brown moth flies overhead. I smile widely at it, feel my eyes bulge and roll.

I sip iced coffee in outdoor seating at a café. Year in NYC has me different than I once was. Inexplainable stirring sits around my presence, color of aura has surely changed though I've no psychic friends to confirm.

Marble white-tile floor covered in thick, sticky, syrup. Single white light, me in panties. Nearly a glue trap, I've trudged a third of the way there; lift my foot, it pulls away with threads of syrup thinly pulling and stringing between my foot and floor.

In dusk light I walk to meet a friend at the bar. Balancing main character ego to survive; simultaneously knowing thousands walking around me live a different truth we actually can't comprehend. I flow with energy of the city now. Why does New York always look so pretty on TV? I try to imagine my walk more romantically.

My body sweats with honey and syrup. Sticky beads slowly roll down head and chest. A large fly is stuck somewhere persistently buzzing its caught wings. Each steps leaves me covered in more goo, I stare longingly at a dark door across the room. Another sludge step.

Camera shutter flashes over and over as I model. We only have capacity for so many hobbies. Fates have given us each some gift we must find. I creatively connect with my nude self in the purple light. I tried to be an adult when I got here. It turns out I was supposed to be a child.

Unsuccessfully I try to rub syrup off my arms, only creating more discomfort. I'm nearly at the door. Tears stream from my eyes with nowhere to flow. My limbs ache from pulling so hard; I fall to my knees, now crawling to the door. Hands and knees pulling up the stick, so many little strands, I can't lie down, I can't lie down.

Bodies shake with me in the crowd at a show. We're actually all pretty similar, we overcomplicate every aspect. In lights and music, we're primal, gyrating. I connect when I disconnect. Learning to merge body and soul, I've learned to feel myself this year.

Blue flame burns hotly impatient. Water in biblical pot with a thousand tiny bubbles.

Pavement slick with blood, leaves shake in anxious wind.

Ridged horns of the ram, stamps its hooves on dry cracked earth.

Water boils over, roiling water cracks the eggs, whites seep out like blistered pus

Bird is passed with entrails smashed, eyes seek mother, deadened purgatory.

The ram rears back then hurtles forward, horns pierce through soft fleshy stomach, a slice so smooth, blood on covering hands

I drop the lobster into the water, it screams and yells, water burns my hands

Step on the bird to make it more ugly, soul is long gone, what meaning is body

On my knees, impaled and gurgling, grab its horns, stare at the devil.

Hands blister like eggs, the lobster is dead, I crack its body, and weep at the scene

The bird is carnage, I stomp and stomp, smile through my snot and bloodshot eyes

But its just a ram that chose me to kill

Everyone eats no matter how gruesome

Everything dies no matter how pure

Throw the pot against the wall and scream at the water. Explosion of flesh the egg and the body.

Smash the eggs in the nest preventing their story, liquid and yolky, covered in wet

Blood pours to knees, stringy hair on sweaty face.

Fatigue hardly ever shakes from my eyelids. Jaw, eyes, a heaviness sits that I cannot rub away. Attempting to pull me down as I swing my legs over the bed.

Too-bright bathroom reveals flaws on the face. Wild, tousled sleep-hair that not many get to see and enjoy on me. I briefly grip sides of the sink and kiss myself on the lips. There are subtle lip stains from other days gone.

I slowly undo buttons from the long leopard-print silky dress I fell asleep in. Straps loosely kiss my shoulders and slip away.

For a moment my eyes widen, slowly relax again. My breasts are covered in mold. Or, where my breasts normally are, are two heaving mounds of mold. The rest of my body remains an olive skin I'm used to. My navel sits intact where it normally does.

Soft, wet green mounds like a toxic plush carpet. Some spots pucker and wrinkle into little crevices. Lower corner of my left boob has a tender white fluffy ovular shape, inside of that sits mold that is neither blue nor gray neither green nor teal.

Upper corner of my right boob has a plume of white fluff with pink dots scattered about. Ghosts of nipples are barely visible, two puckering lighter green circular spots with a kiss of black mold in the center.

Exhale sharply, all the mold heaves; gingerly I touch my fingers to the scene. Soft and plump like newly grown hair. Pressing my fingers a little causes it to sigh. An imprint is left that is slowly swallowed up by more mold come to take its spot.

I think I still look very pretty, though I've lost the sleep from my eyes. I run to my room to replace one dress with another, this one sweet, satin, light pink, down to my thighs. I tell my cat about my mold discovery. He doesn't care. I love him.

Now I throw open my fridge to a small array of food, grasping a kiwi, cut it in half, slowly scoop out the inside, savor its blast of tart flavor with only mild tingling from a new cavity.

The other half in hand I return to the mirror. Sliding dress down to belly, slowly touch exposed side of the kiwi to where a nipple once sat. It puckers, softens, rots in my hand. Now rotten juice slides down my hands, the green darkens, dries, fluffs out in white mold. Soon the kiwi is a husk of what it once was, my lips curl into delighted smirk.

What a treat! What a gift! God has blessed my body greatly! Night after night, I reveal my sweet moldy chest to lovers, I watch their face contort, grimace, eyes widen in shock! An accidental touch covers their fingers in soft, powdery greens and blues, fear passes over their faces. Men pass me fruit, I place back in their hand a rotted lump of what was.

Reverence turning to disgust at reality, scale of emotion now at my disposal! Narrative is written by me, now wretched Siren, testing like the old hag in the fairy tale, see me, see me, fear me, fear me!

Walking to the C-line I gaze at a small, turquoise cross high on a steeple a few stories higher than the other buildings. Its been framed by several skies. Squinting at the turquoise violently, vibrant against gray today.

Its silhouette creates a stirring. I wonder if I'd have the same feelings if it were a different object. Is it just its towering against the sky that brings awe?

People have told me my art makes them feel something. This makes me not want to make it anymore.

Ironically, people next to me at the café discuss God's love. Awe doesn't bubble the same way as the turquoise emblem. Maybe it is just its height looking down at us...listening, I feel dizzy.

The cross is framed by blue and white, dulling it immensely. I think all my dreams could be a farce. Time will just pass me by; an old derelict, who believes she's a seer. That old witch that lives in the dilapidated apartment, long silver hair knitted up into scarves. My youth has already taken its leave from my face. I see it in the photos.

There doesn't seem to be much meaning. I hear a mother threaten her child. I wonder if she goes to church. How many generations of mean- spirited misgivings. The mother looks down at the child and sees herself reflected back. The image scares her. She spanks the child.

If you only experience yourself, it's only natural to be the main character. As one sentence leaves my mouth, my mind has stacked a thousand different things already. The sky cross whispers that I'm small. It seems menacing. I spit. Against the stars it's merely a high-up shape. I flip it off. I show it my boobs. Then my ass. I tell the overbearing object, this piece of metal that embodies all of my problems, the worker who fashioned it long dead, having made 50,000 turquoise crosses for steeples, I tell the object to come down and fight me. It never moves. Its a better man than I. I wish I lived by the A line.

There are a lot of conversations at the coffee shop. Chattering lives, philosophy, relationships. Everyone is playing their life, words tasted slowly, a grinding mind of variables, only I live in this head, only ever sharing pieces of a whole. My hands shake at the keyboard.

UNEDITED

The buzzing in her head only stops when she gasps and moans. Sweat so sweet, little beads on her forehead. Slinks to a lover's room hoping night will fall from her skin.

No one will be beside her when she wakes up. Saunter to the kitchen, admiring reflection in every surface. Grotesque, stretched, squashed, she can't take her eyes away.

She never washes fruit, yet worries of the eyes that fall into her mouth. Feels slightly envious of what they may briefly see. Acid churn bubbles, turning everything to its place.

She touches her hair, feels her breast, in a way no lover could. She took on sweethearts so she could put on a show, another vessel to making love with herself.

Easy to love the physical form, god-touched, privileged-to-be-working, arms and legs, body. That was the only thing that made sense.

Connecting the mind to the body was far more work. The body rock, the mind liquid; unable to be grasped like the thigh, unable to be tasted like the burning soup.

Sever here is mouthing words to the song overhead. Experiencing food may be the only tether I have to being alive. Everyone is very cute. Everyone is very caged.

Have to live in an ego world when capitalism spoon fed us ego. Unsure why I think I have answers. Moving to New York I've taken a "some people must be AI," stance. Orbiting one another constantly. Each head erupting words, millions of words contained in the subway car now, phones dissipating some words away, others' words float near me, now confused which words are mine or theirs. I turn my music up.

Manager is wearing a tight, tight, tight brown velvet dress. She's pretty large, I wish her tummy could be my pillow. Bartender with wordy head places a tray in front of me. These oysters have a thick milky fluid that slides out of their shells. Never know if they're that good or if I just love sex.

Try to acknowledge all words around when able. Yet if whispers are heard too often a stone begins to crush my ribs. Every single person is a main character in this story. You think of things you relate with reading this. Seeing me in the coffee shop, I was just another girl. You didn't wonder what I was thinking about. Actually you thought I looked sort of bitchy.

Slowly the oyster's flavor fills my mouth. Moving my tongue, its slick taste over my cheeks, the back of my throat. This is mine. Each time I taste, it's my experience. I could never taste for anyone else. The experience is personal, inside of me. No one's words could pervade eating. Feeling is mine.

Seeing the server mouth the words reminds me he's alive. He likes this song. He has no reason to share this with me. He's going to go home and play it again. He won't remember my face. I don't remember his.

I have hope we'll figure it out in several more generations. Look back on this time, shame us, dismayed amazement. I think a lot of people will suffer first.

Mouth comes down on a smooth, almost fleshy, wet ball. Balancing boba, sticky Japanese donut, phone, hands vaguely covered in semi-sweet icing, now sticking to the phone as well. Every time I try to look like some New York it-bitch I end up looking like Ohio. Keep sticking my fingers in my mouth. The stick and saliva never ends.

Thinking things with no answers, for no reason, which tortures me. Is it mental illness, too much stimulation, society placing its toils upon me? Constantly staring up for answers, only naked trees, naked people in heaven-touching buildings on a wet, slinky sky.

I think about being a consumer. Supporting local business, but-goddamn-wasting-a-lot-of-plastic-why-isn't-plastic-banned-spoiled-being-able-to-buy-little-treats-often-places-deserve-to-make-money, etc., etc., etc.. Maybe I never did grow out of my childhood guilt.

Maybe the only thing that gives me joy is adorable food and beverage. Still imagine the cream puff imitating a pig I ate a few months ago. Sweet pink puff turning into sludge inside of me.

Seem to chew boredom, existentialism whether it's city, beach, farm. Can't commit to the bit I guess. Plus I fucking love buying shit. Balancing what's natural, good for me, reading the labels, clicking all the little links. Ding, ding, ding, my brain says.

I bite down on this cream puff and out of it pours intestines; I'm horrified but my mouth continues to pull it out, somehow they just keep coming. I'm pulling, pulling, they're sliding out of this beating, doughy puff, I start to cry.

Love to consume because I need distraction. Distraction from what? Thought I wanted more time to not think, but I may only want that for others. I want it all to go away. Then I think how much I'll suffer if I don't get a cream puff that looks like a beating heart.

My face is animated and showing all my teeth all the way up to the girl walking away from me. Inadvertently rolling my eyes, looking around for those I came with. I feel pigeon-holed. I ask myself if I only go out anymore to look hot.

I'm choosing colors from a palette, trying on clothes, appreciating my body. My skin feels like satin, the brushes running over my eyes send me chills. I was always art. My face is always a canvas. I like to be looked at, I like to look at others. I'm sad more people don't wear more wild things.

My friends are better at aging than I am, hugging newfound cynicism with pride; it emanates, making it easy to find them huddling at the bar. I put my hands on their shoulders, "People didn't use to annoy me this much."

Lights change colors rapidly on my friend's face. Patterns of the lights go around his face, his forehead is green, the light moves down to make his chin purple, his cheeks look sallow in purple, is he grinning or grimacing at me? His hair looks alive, unable to read the emotion reflected in his eyes as the shadows change too quickly. Our egos are always huge here. If I look too long he's just hues, skin, wax, nearly looks alien speaking to me,

"Well maybe we should do more drugs then." Will drugs keep me young? Is being old literally just being tired more?

I'm 21. At a house party for no reason but to be there. I'm looking down at the tops of moving masses from a dirty wooden staircase. It's dark but there are neon lights everywhere showing me flashes of dancers, bodies, sloshing.

Then boyfriend finds me, kisses me, feel a thrill thinking people could be looking. Bouncing downstairs, I'm part of the mass, shaking, moving, sweating, touching, panting, yelling, it's building, I'm groaning, I'm nearly there;

Pop into the kitchen, enjoying how abrasively white-bright. It's jarring, disturbing. Gives me a weird sense of deja vue, was I dead here once? Inserting myself into a conversation, then dominating it as my nerves forced. I write my phone number on a boy's arm. That doesn't make sense to do, as it's 2017. I skip out of the party.

My friends order me another drink. It scares me that I'm searching for that feeling again at only 27. Novelty wears off. Unsure of what I like anymore. Everyone enjoying me so easily, or at least pretending to, became boring. I'm reflected back at myself from behind the bar, I look sullen, I watch my entire funeral in that mirror.

I've just moved to New York City. "Let's do a shot."

Often think about womanhood. World's bias makes it impossible to accurately perceive the self. Maybe I am too sensitive, brash, opinionated. Or are these just things society puts on me to silence me?

It's raining on the Christmas tree outside. The lights flash between two different light settings every second. I can't stop staring at it, it seems fucking depressing. Someone else would think it's beautiful. Then I decide it probably is beautiful. Then I don't know. That makes me feel insane.

Thoughts are always fleeting. More should be sorted out in my subconscious, not so close to the surface.

There's a woman in line whose voice fucking grinds me. She asks about the alternative milks, I don't know why it's so goddamn annoying. What triggers these things inside of us?

I oscillate between the hyper positive and cynical ramblings. Many of my friends find this extremely annoying; as they should. Simultaneously, they choose either toxic positivity or mute cynicism. I hate that they've so readily chosen a side. Solely because I envy that in them. Living a truth. Those fuckers.

I look at the tree again. "Are you beautiful or are you ugly?" The tree says it doesn't give a fuck and to stop staring at it.