There was always something about blood. Some people hate the sight of it. But I picked at every scab and opened every cut, squeezing it out in drops and blotting it with my socks, and by the time most girls were getting their periods, frightened by this trick now played on them by the crack between their legs, I was so ready for my fertility that I spent the whole afternoon in my bedroom dragging clots and drips from what had secretly become my glorious cunt.
Let me tell you about my room.
Well. How are we gonna do this?
Start at the top, that's what kings advise.
I have painted the ceiling white, the walls red and carpeted it with scraps from Daddy's store—do you think it's pretentious and girly to call him Daddy? I think you'll find things go easier if you let me do this my way—with my words, my images, and my particular description if you have a problem with that turn to page 70 and be done with me 'cause I am done with you.
The ceiling's white, the walls are red, I have adorned every surface with candle wax daggers blades syringes and paintings of my perils drawn in period blood this would be 1) snakes 2) death by fire 3) my first kiss 4) my first failed attempt at sex and 5) many other cameos like paintings on a cave wall depicting my short-lived downfall into adulthood.
Oh: also: I'm a journal writer. Write with a stylus garnered from the network, a site of old-century fountain pens that make me cum. You read that right. When I hold the stylus, I cum. Try to keep up.
From the floor up, it's barely walkable. I keep my comics there. One called Johnny the Homicidal Maniac—you probably never heard of it do you think this mole is visible it looks like a heart I call it my heart-shaped mole and I hope that when we fall in love, you will cuddle me and touch the mole on my chest it's not black or brown it's red and filled with blood how could it not be when it comes to me!
In one corner is a stuck pile—stiff!—boy's briefs I like to wear when I bleed pads period pieces crotch swabs string peens you know Obi-Wan Kenobi 'cause you're my only hope. Those are cardboard stiff blood brown I just can't bear to throw them away they're part of my human history.
Buried in vaults, every part of me severed at the joints.
When I wake up my dreams are so good that it makes my real life horror. That's my dream: to wake up someday to a life that welcomes me instead of terrifies me. For now, though, it looks like my lot is for each day to ride downhill from the point that I open my eyes.
The skwunch of my comforters, down white dripped with red wax, me covered my nakedness only for me under a thick nest, ducks would be jealous, scrolling around and then I'm tangled by the legs in my treetops, wrapping me hot hot hot over eggs with the lovely lovely object of my book: the Fetus Room.
I rock them and roll them.
They grow inside me.
They mature come out squeezing through my bat cave, my love taco, baby box, cooch twat, taco. Snake hole. Whatever. The point is when I squat over that scrap of carpet and squeeze!—the creature from Alien comes out of me flailing with its pincers screaming high-pitched wails that grow up to be a full-size raptor it's kind of like buying a snake as a baby it's so cute! and then it grows up to suffocate your child and you have to take him back to the store.
Same thing with chimpanzees.
So I squat over carpet scraps, bend at the knee, push down my girl shorts expose the camel, toes spread for balance, and I do the deed.
I give birth to an alien, half-formed child, unready to breathe, heart barely formed, needs an incubator, and I keep my baby boy in a terrarium on the dresser, six total there with a seventh below—one I'm working on, conditioning a new apartment for my baby—hopefully a girl!—and bang bang time with these boys—a cum-guzzling cunt—funnel it into my puss spilt on the hairs which you'll eat it's my glazed donut!
Now plug me up! I keep cum in my sperm locker for use any time I please going on 14 babies born in this room.
I try not to anthropomorphize them therefore naming them with numbers like 2ea and 14b.
We are together only for a short time.
In that time.
We benefit from each other.
The experience is brutal.
The men in my life are temporary.
I can get fucked anytime I want.
But that's not what interests me.
I'm on a biology tip.
And I think you'll see, if you follow me into this room, that you and I have more in common than you might expect at this time. Do you like to get pregnant and kill your babies before they're due? Do you enjoy placing living tissue inside a microwave? Have you always wanted to torture someone but hesitated because they might fight back? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you might be damaged enough to continue. Please find yourself a comfortable place to sit—or preferably, to lie down. Cover yourself with your favorite blanket. Choose a stuffed animal to keep you safe. Skwunch your pussy muscles—squeeze that box. Think of yourself as a wittie-bittie baby, just a few months old, not ready to come from the oven, and you're sweetness beyond any full-term infant, covered with slime and slipping between my legs dropping on the floor of the fetus room.