I'm not so good at being a girl sometimes. Each day I wake, the first 10 seconds my mind tells me if I'm going to be a boy or a girl. On girl days I call boys and say, "Come over and do me like I wanna be done," yes I'm partial to Prince on boy days I set up a mirror flat on the floor and kneel on top of it playing with my dick until about noon. On girl days I wear cutie cute cutesters adorned avec Hello Kitty. Boy days I wear Batman briefs blue and black elastic and it lets me stick my hand down my front anytime watching myself from above from below and I cum on the glass squirting like a boy drip drip drip. Some kids see themselves getting hitched at an early age I saw myself with child pregnant giving birth and now I'd have the ultimate pet, the ultimate friend, who would love me and me only the very best tagalong in the uni. Tiny alien baby put her on a keychain and jump from bed to desktop, desk to dresser, dress to window sill, keep it going until I shake her to a frenzy, star globe, rub us both to ignition, all the other flowers will see me in my terrible cage, ceiling hung with spikes, torn of gentle skin between my legs, frontage road shaved to a strip, landing planes on my furry mountain thing one and thing two popping up and down, carousel of broken dreams—everything outside my room is Hopper, everything in is Bacon.
I've built up an eternity of my impressions.
Flashlights on a window, sprite on a wall. Brightness photo pops blowing sparks like the olden days. Howard Hughes in the spotlight—douchebag freak like me, keep everything clean, visit 12 rooms a night to reassure me of my momma's song, the one I sing to a wall of jars, every night, in a girl's voice on girl days, a boy's voice on boys'. Splash!
Splash iodine from a dropper in my petri dish—imagination's microscope, suck my own dick with a rubber duck squeezing as I push in and out a clitoris innie or outie either way suction is your friend and don't worry who sees it. You are my fetal toy, born of blood deoxyribo puss cum human bone fragments red bikini straps hard cocks cum drips giant veins sticking out I want to pop them cut them open suck the blood right out of your thickie. Cum in my ear, nappy man, slice the tip of your finger and make cave paintings inside of me.
Mark me for a thousand years.
Spit something that will never go away.
Sign your name on my muscle.
I'll squeeze you.
Bleed you.
Drop your paint on my floor.
We don't use a tarpaulin to catch the mess. I finally learned to eat chicken wings with my fingers feel good about sticky greasy fucking nut now! you hammerhead, cock smith, tonight's lucky winner.
Finger-licking good.
Hotness and ranch dressing. Undress you with my fingers. Remix you load the latest upgrade. Watching the eclipse on selfie mode and you can even take a picture! Breath—exhale. Sweat—telltale. Influenced by wrapping paper, side wheel to the gods, leprosy-positive sprinkles on my pussy drag—that's a dragon to you beware the macrowave timer behind you when it beeps I'll fry your dick extracting semen with a turkey baster your insides blown apart like Black Hawk Down there's another bird down in the city that's how we plan it in war ok to kill better to wound then you wound everyone who comes to help no army in the world could survive without "Leave no man behind" but in the fetus room we employ a similar rule: Always leave them wanting more. That's the magician's rule, the performer's—better to serve a small meal impeccable than for any dish to pool unwanted. Listen, sweets, you don't want equal rights—think it through—it would undo everything the most feminine of us use as power. We wouldn't even be female anymore. As the goners say: equal but not same. Boys in my neighborhood know that this is the room where they can copulate with a blood witch who will never come back on them with a baby—I gots my own uses for the babyfiend and it don't involve you sending me money you got to keep your mouth shut and never let anyone know of my collection—kid protos slid under the bed with my Domino's boxes rats fungi and an empty bottle of Hennessy Paradis. A fruit fly comes from under the bed crosses stage left lands on my lips rubs his fingers together in prayer collecting pheromones from labia crossing right rising through glass pane like David Blane crossed with Criss Angel on a stage show flying up to purple clouds retouched every angle then down, down down finding a street fiend jumping through hoops with the local ho—a girl named Faith 'proximately 12 years old—the bee sting pulls him over jailbait down asphalt past a gladiolus just now blooming orange buds past that to my house through the door (David Blane and Mindfreak) over the stairs floating like that little bitch from The Exorcist walking back on hands and feet head spinning like I am stabbing my hole with a crucifix popping a pimple excavating a splinter picking my nose I deep dick myself with the Constitution (articles three through five) then I cum straddling a clit vibe reading as much of the I Have a Dream speech warbling my voice see how far I can get 'fore my hands drop the tablet on the bed I stabilize the buzzy bee on my radical button sweat breaks out on my upper lip the bee stings I touch my nips dripping on the bedspread 12 Monkeys slipping out of me—silverfish—writhing in their new life granting me fortunes from a teller.