I want to contain the part of myself that fucks everything up, that gets a rise out of shocking people. The part that prokes and prods at social niceties, the part that gets off on watching people squirm. The part that picks disorder over congruence, with a senseless appetite for irreverent mischief. I want to be kept in an emerald jewel box, or the turret of a castle, restrained like a wild horse. My hands tied behind my back with ribbon, punished like a rowdy princess. My multitudes, contained. Gagged. I don’t have any present shrieking opinions on politics, other than that we should nuke the moon.  

If we nuked the moon, maybe we wouldn't be able to lie to one another. Our impulses might overrule our proclivity to fashion individual brands, and the truth would catapult us into the right timelines. I wait for the stars to rearrange, for the white sun to win this war. For time to cease. I want to sink my teeth into the truth. It aches for my communion. I follow it's threads like a cobweb, making it's way to a subtle epicenter. I want to know if fate is real, if love can get stored up for you like an inheritance, and what you have to do to earn it. I want to know what bitches to trust, and why I feel like I have been sent from both the future and the past. Should I marry him, should I leave him. I am hungry for answers, so much so that I could swear that they are hungry for me. Everyday, our individual energetic imprints screech out of us like individually deranged songs, in a cellular hum, a stillness mismatching our squirming bodies. I know what will happen but never in what order. I understand everyone and no one understands me.