She is the white—opposite of red. She sits like an angel, a ghost, a sinking ship, a colored flame. Dress lit with candles, mouth opens soundless—her song is on the other side of the dime. Screaming, echoing in an empty room. Before the furniture. Before the paint. She opens her mouth and touches the holy wall, pinprick redness of the hole, touch her pussy with fingers, blood, ailment, a loosening agent. Rev up the lawnmower and cut off my head. I rock back and forth on a nigga, slide whistle that cum off his head, Pietro Petrol—it seemed like an innocent decision—but what works does not necessarily work on you. It is like a mountain. You climb it but it is not there for you to climb—mountains have their own agendas. That is the thumb for dealing with others. I create enjoyment for you with a plush button, slapstick clit cuts the head off a trout, but all the while my motivation isn't visible on my face—complex masses of gray, dense as a diamond, lying next to each other on a pillow. She goes this way, he goes that, and in the end your whole experiencing of this place is such that you are responding, responding, always caught responding, lack of meditation, lack of breath, lack of autonomy. Drops of water seeping through the mountain—they come out pure. I stood in the grocery pondering 30 types of water, picked the most expensive one, and said, "This is my life." I am going to take each step like I want it, breathe each breath like I can. I'm letting my family go. I live in their house but my room is locked and I will never ever see them while I'm alive. Finally changed the track. Birthed myself bloody and new. Created adjectives that perfectly describe me. Some called me a killer. Some, a mother. Some scientist, some architect, some semiotician, some ice cream, some black pepper, some ant traps, some cat food, some rapper, some poet, some angel of death. If you whisper into the microphone you'll reach people in the back row. This is the remix. The view from around the bend. All fear is a fear of becoming and this is what you might be. Eccentrics seek out eccentrics, they don't know who they might be. Herd people scream for help when they encounter us. We give birth—they only hold themselves underwater. Ours is a land of bloody eyeballs and bloody hands and bloody dicks and bloody cunts, generative, whetting your mind for the big flush. Swirl of menses in toilet, swoop streak of it going down the tube. I leave it there to remind me of my femininity, remind me of my power and my weakness, a magnetic pull that leaves da Vinci's man burning in its tracks. I thought I was a polymath in my 20s—I did not understand the word. Recommend you see the world as paper thin—flattened in symbols everything a misreading of a representation, consciousness exists in the observer not the observed and I am passing in the hallway in my leotard, the black hallway by the photo lab and I had you take my picture so I could bring you here and kiss you with my pepper breath, hoping hoping hoping for your touch. Reach me! Reach down and touch between my legs! I am not a whore today, not a goddess—I am five again I am in the treehouse I am on the trampoline I am in the laundry room and this is the germination of my sex—touching me there I complete the loop I am the feeler and the felt I create my own totality, universe, whole. When you play those two notes on the piano again and again it moods me enough to jump in front of a train to fall from a parking structure the very top I am head girl in some YA book hearing the echo of your voice in an empty room I could learn to play just to impress you you are my emperor—fine—molten—brilliant—hurts to look at—that's all I can say. But you loved me from the time I was seven inches, a hand length, crippled hands fully formed stubs of teeth brain damaged before I ever said a word. You loved me when I was just a seed, when a tree was no guarantee. When I could not ride a bike. Before I could divide. When my cells were too few to count. Before the tire met the pump. When you could hold me in a single palm. Before I learned to talk. When the sky bent so low it touched the stars. Before the ice cream melted. When my fontanelle tempted your fingers to implode. When my soft spot closed. When I became a demon, taking on demon clothes and demon matter and demon art, swallowed you for nourishment, ordered off the menu, raw and undercooked eggs—mine are always squishy in the middle when I flush them down the pump. I'll squeeze your finger, tell you a riddle, count my blessings before they hatch, video you all with my phone squirming alien babies on the dresser floor. Fictive life, couch dweller—you are a scream in a well, stone walls and the puddle at the bottom, made all in a movie, tiny credits roll my name, and believe it or not this is the cradle I was born in: slapped down, conceived, baked, born, dropped, and forgotten.