filth

He calls me a whore, a slut, he says I’m his only love, and that’s what he ought to say, and what you do say when you just let things say themselves, when you let the body alone, to seek and find and take what it likes, and then everything is right, and nothing’s wasted, the waste is covered over and all is swept away in the torrent, in the force of desire. I asked him to do it again and again. Do it to me. And he did, did it in the unctuousness of blood. And it really was unto death. It has been unto death.

DRUGS MADE ME FLY 

Are you healed or do you only think you’re healed? I told myself from nothing nothing could be taken away. But can you love anyone yet? When I feel safe, I can love. But will you touch anyone? I told myself if I had nothing the world couldn’t touch me. In the bathtub, I examine my body. We’re supposed to do that. And your face too? Your face in the mirror? I was vigilant: when I touched myself I didn’t feel anything. Were you safe then? I was never safe, even when I was most hidden. Even then I was waiting. So you couldn’t protect yourself? The absolute erodes; the boundary, the wall around the self erodes. If I was waiting I had been invaded by time. But do you think you’re free? I think I recognize the patterns of my nature. But do you think you’re free? I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.

No trauma has discrete edges. Trauma bleeds. Out of wounds and across boundaries.