#I Am Hungry
In.
Out.
Lust and smoke fill my lungs to the brim as I sit, cross-legged, across from you. I look deep into those big blue eyes each time I scoop. My hands are slowly binding together from the sticky juices. I close my eyes and meditate for moments at a time, and each time I open up I am welcomed by the exquisite hues of red. Every grapefruit string and pomegranate seed is absorbed by my taste buds at the back of my tongue, some even getting stuck in between my teeth. This is no ordinary feast; this is a harmonious ritual. Your eyes tell me that you’ve been starved for days, but rather than devour uncontrollably, you lightly hold each piece between your thumb and forefinger, and place it gently on your tongue. Our mouths are stained red as if we have eaten too many cherries or smudged our lipstick. We sit in this beautiful garden and continue to mindfully pick bit by bit. You place your finger in my mouth as if you want me to lick off the excess juices. As I begin to caress it with my lips you tilt your head inquisitively.
No, darling. You know what you need to do.
If God is a woman, then the antichrist is in the form of a teenage girl. Ruthless and cunning.
I bite down gently at first, and then build up enough courage. A nice, clean cut. You giggle as I do it, a childish joy in your face. I wish to stay in this moment forever, here with you.
I remember the first time we kissed. We were only fourteen at the time, practising for when we would have the real thing with handsome, stubbly, solemn men who would whisk us up and fly us away. Take us to a different place. Any place.
The world around us is crumbling, but in this moment, we are letting out our deepest desires.
We are devouring our darkest fantasies. We were outcasts. We were villains. But here, nothing else matters. I am a daydreamer; my mind often wonders and takes walks when it should be sitting still. But it can see everything oh so clearly now.
People are running and screaming in terror, but not from us. Children no longer gawk and stare as we walk down the street. Dogs gnarling at our feet. No. For the first time, we are completely and utterly free. I peer down at my stained white blouse, my lanky arms, legs, hands. I am no longer dainty, but gangly. My bony, goreish fingers bend as if they are about to snap. I awake and realise I am no longer in the beautiful garden of Eden. I am in your living room, wallpaper peeling from the horrid smell of decay and piss-stained carpet. My fingertips are already by your neck as if my body knew.
5 seconds.
10 seconds.
30 seconds.
Nothing. I wait another
30 seconds.
One minute.
Oh god no,
What have I done?
I realise why the muffled screams have disappeared. Not the screams of children but the screams of one singular person.
The sirens begin wailing down the highway.
And then there’s a knock at the door...
#Untitled
from my father
i received my name
my brains
and my crippling desire to create
at any cost
the sword that slides down my throat,
an eternal bond.
i find comfort in my nihilism
as i do from your icy-cold skin
the way it feels gliding up my back
and down my throat
the devil was created by the Lord
and though he has gone down in history
as the purest evil
at least he is recognised
father, forgive me
for i am about to sin
if it means that I can just for one moment,
one moment,
say something and be
heard
#NOCTURNAL ANIMAL (a love letter)
I’ve been thinking of you more and more recently.
A black butterfly came and landed on my leg. It just sat there. Resting. As if it had no fear, no shame. My thighs became a stage for its little dance.. It knew that I was one of them. That I will shed this skin and bone and transform into the animal that lives inside me. The black-winged creature became unsettled and lifted itself gracefully from my kneecap to make its rounds. First the lavender, then the bird bath. My eyes sub-consciously followed, along with my mind. I was flying with it.
Visitors have been coming more and more recently. Maybe they sense my aura or have been told by their other butterfly friends about the short brunette who lounges in the tall grass, waiting. I sit and watch them patiently. Trusting, they delicately place themselves onto my hand. I examine them closer each time. Gliding my forefinger over the contours of their wings, closing my eyes as I feel them float along my sun-bitten arms and legs. Some tend to be a bit clumsy, thumping onto my calves.
As I try to help, occasionally their little wings snap off.
Clean. Crisp.
I place these discarded parts with my growing collection that sits on the altar.
You always told me that I could do anything I put my mind to. I’ve been crafting for the last three weeks. Physical motion helps keep my mind away from everything that is going on inside it. I would have to call it a body of work. It’s collaging, it’s sewing, a puzzle even! It requires precision and delicacy. When it comes to using dainty materials, only the gentlest of movements can be enforced.
Each time I lightly grasp one of those fresh wings I see the remnants I have of you. Locks of hair, teeth.
I sit and wait for you, like the moon waits for the sun. I am the owl who prays every night to be able to sing with the bluebirds. I am the fig tree who wants to produce the same lovely buds as the rose bushes across the park. And I still crave to be grasped by something, to be held by another planet or body of water. It’s been 837 days; my art piece is finished.
And now, now,
I can fly...