There's a priest in my bed going through my journals. I am wearing latex.
This is not a metaphor.
He’s wading through my journals of his own volition, and I feel naked- more naked than without the latex. Fingering each page like resurrected oddities, strange alien fruit ready for inspection. It makes my body blush.
I look at him with the eyes of a half-tamed creature, all hair and hips and hell. I want him the way the ocean wants the shore. Reaching forth and drawing back. I am calculated and evasive, aware of the witticisms of my touch and keeping him at a distance. His blood is spiked with aluminum and steel.
I have worked too hard to overcome the female tradition of silence. I am bored of seducing people out of amnesia. I have dragged my panicked heart through too many regenerative experiences. Borrowed out my light to revive and feed lost boys.
So in the ventilation of rage and humor, I call my soul back home. I am a voyeur in this strange plane. A reluctant visitor, trying to decipher which thoughts are organic, and which are algorithms. I find this place terrifying and I find it entertaining. I am guarding my world of unreality, delicately, because you can see the world in such a vivid, brilliant way when you don’t belong to anyone.Waiting for micro realizations. Following spontaneity, numbers and clues, in a language only understood by yourself. Shameless and stained with light. Fire is both celestial and infernal.