I have a box. She is square on all sides. Each plate is marked with the tears of a thousand suns, etchings made by the feet of monarchs. Hellraiser buttons fit my fingers sliding 'round like a Mensa kid who can solve Rubix with one hand and her eyes closed.
I am that kid.
My mind encodes in blockchain.
Everything I eat deteriorates into blood.
When I stick my fingers in the holes, I unlock an oven—Pandora. I never know what's in the box. When I open it, it is always a surprise, always new, always coming at me. I know how to regulate the hose, flowing in Morse, retrograding a beer bong/vomit carrier up one nose and out the other, cycling the day's first piss in a Solo cup I keep beside the bed.
This is my process:
When dusk falls, I slather my vagina with anti-tick cream, Deep Woods OFF! and patchouli oil. I can't cum without creamy Jif, coconut oil, and a fine layer of dismembered cricket legs. Of course it helps to have a green apple Four Loko on hand for aiding with the cramps. In the future every tall girl will come complete with her own wood clamps to tie off her marbled wooden vagina. Until then I use my daddy's power tools.
Cutting, gliding, lasers, it shoots such light that when my neighbors look at my window they say "What's she building in there?" and imagine me a terror suspect.
In my dreams I'm a corporate star. Sitting at a conference table with four other geniuses, each expert in our own art, each humbled by the presence of the capable—all of us under constant surveillance, every expression captured and reviewed by an even nicer conference table in another room, that one seated with 20 people—and when it comes my turn to demonstrate capabilities to the group I lift my skirt unzip my jeans roll down my socks part my hair and insert myself between Jennifer Lawrence and Darren Aronofsky's sex.
I am film. I am the film between the sky. Sun is a picture. Earth is a camera. The galaxy is projecting on us, remote viewing shows this beyond a shadow of the stars.
My box. Hellraiser box. Skinny kitties mewing their way 'round, slick fetus of a cat, the grease tying their hair backward and strapping on Sopwith goggles Peanuts crunching under my feet the wall is filled with gators, all sizes, plucked from the rivers of the world, my room smells like Cajuns and mangroves and Dog the Bounty Hunter is there and Bear Grylls and Lucy Liu all leaning in with forceps and head lights looking into my puss and chattering conferring even the CIA can pick up their talk and has a live feed of my pussy with Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey Circus monkeys crawling in and out like a South African mining operation—I tell you, it gets pretty busy down there when I forget the plug.
And Lucy Liu sweeps me up with an archaeological brush, taking sweet care not to dislodge any raptor fossils—we all know that T. rex can't run, so that scene in Jurassic Park never could have happened with the Jeep. Sux anyway for Lucy Liu 'cause I eat Stuyvesant grads with dino claws and lizard eggs.
Lucy Liu retracts her scalpel hand.
Jeff Goldblum and Stephen Hawking attack me with a series of equations. Little is known about their function.
I send lockstep fetus to the FBI via drone and ask for help eliminating the kitty hairballs from its precious trunk.
Bear Grylls goes in with his hand deep deep inside my throaty cunt pulls out a fetus and says "This is the most dangerous snake in the world" and eats it. Dog vomits out the window.
And I'm cumming, dicing out slugs onto the comforter, Lucy Liu arranging them in columns and rows, my VJ pumping and pumping slug after slug after slug the wormy natal product everything good about my empty box, empty bank account, empty life. Trent Reznor would shit his Hello Kitty drawers if he saw my face. Split Atticus Ross in two and feed him into a Mac. Lucy sliding her hands along the outer lips of my pussy stimulating the machine to produce as large a litter as possible. Each time she picks up the newborn slug, she spreads the slug's vagina with tweezers from the Victorinox, opens them wide, and ushers in the next dimension of slug-begat-slug wonderfulness, now the bed is a fractal of smaller and smaller interconnected slugs curling around to touch their original momma (ME) in ways I never thought I'd be touched by my babies. They are the most sexually exciting thing to me, copies of copies of me, lobster arms—the arms of the galaxy—turpentine, octopus, eggs falling forever, tossing me in a girl dream of death and softness from above. You never came at me till you came at me in love. Watch it. A killer whale is still a killer even if it's your mom. I sliced popcorn and buttered ovaries in my first job—which was really just a swan trap in the bathroom of an IMAX theater. If you worked there I had you. Had you up inside me projected with forks and focus, fingernails scraping my tunnel on the way up and the way down, leaving cartouche on the walls your pyramid is a birthing chamber life is death and death is life hence burial is birth, birth burial, mummification gastrulation, ability the disabled, vice, and plopping on that conference table is the employee you have never known.