Forgive
me. The contours made me shiver. Forgive me for the hands that made my body weep
oilslicks against the off-white seats of my car. But was it my fault or his, I
want to know. His name was Gene. So tell me. The
car was a field. In the field was either a rape, or an animal's cry. Earlier in
the day I'd wanted Gene so bad, I couldn't help it. He did construction. He had
a smarmy accent. He annoyed me in a shiny café then followed me upstairs
to my place. On the roof I shook my ass for him. He didn't seem to want me. This
was before he got me in the car, the field. Then,
because Gene didn't want me, I shook my ass at a passing hawk with long feathers;
she hooked me through the soft part of my waist, curling her nails around my ribs.
I also wanted this bird sexually. She was hunting and found me, heavy. Her chicks
must have been waiting for her to come home. They'd be beeping like morning traffic
in an enormous nest on a cliffside so far away no human had ever breathed there.
Her wings pumped past tons of air, lifting and pushing down. Each time the wings
bent, my pelvic bone smashed against her throat. I was suddenly coming on this
bird, and to her I was only just food. She
wasn't a hawk, but a building with wings that made me freak against her feathers,
because nature is everything. This is the impossible animal story that could unhinge
me from architecture of power. To become food, alone, and jizzing hard because
of this fierce amorality. My
head hung over backward, loosening my jaw, losing my words, spittle dropping and
evaporating for miles before it hit the ground. This
is how I want my lover inside me, turning to mist in my bones so I can never steal
her soul and replace mine. This is my pact against suicide. Because,
sexlessness makes people lost so bad they're like little rivers without any ferns
defining their edges. And a fern, remember, is a fist uncurling slowly in the
sun. And these sexless people say when no hand is building them, they can't feel
their edges. And everyone's noises get in. One
time I thought I had it figured out. I was fucking this boy, a different one from
Gene, another jerk I found on the street. This one was a compulsive liar so I
knew I could trust anything he said. Who wants fake honesty, a dusty silk rose
in your own hair? Who wants her own selfish self? I didn't want my half-hearted
self. I was on
the mattress on the dirt floor of the carriage house where I lived. I watched
the liar fall on me like a ship riding a monster storm and I turned my head, confused,
then I threw up this long gash of shadow, wet like lava, burning my fuck to stone.
And that was how I stopped fucking guys. Liars
come hard little seeds inside you, planting multiple souls that are too true to
grow. I realized, then, that all men are either compulsive liars or do not want
you to fuck them. I had a clear moment of history. My liar was pleased in his
post-cumming sleep. I arched my neck and puked again. This
is also the reason why I am a bestialist. Animals like to play at murder. This
brutality that is our community, that, I can understand. Only in times of destruction
do animals search for peace. And this is why we have relationships. Tom and Jerry
really love each other. I
was trying so hard to make sense of my anatomy why my body was a car which was
really a field where a rape took place. The
catch was that in order to look into my mind, I had to use my mind. I had nothing
else except my cunt, so, after the rape, a baby was born. It wasn't a real one,
it was a small figurine, but still I would not see it harmed. The baby born in
the car became a full-grown spotted cow with a beautiful body. She let me sniff
her hooves. I gave her little kisses up each of her four stiff legs. I moved across
her inner thighs and toward her breast. She nodded her head and exhaled hard.
The breath came out her nostrils, made little putty-colored whirls in the chill
country air. Her eyes rolled back. I suckled the hairy udder, drawing milk-fat
into my throat like sperm. I watched the fleas circle her nipples and I pulled
at the hairs with my tongue. I pushed at the tuft, tugged it with my front teeth.
In a thin cotton nightgown, I kneeled beneath the beautiful cow, whose eyelashes
were as long as my toes. I rocked back and forth on my heel in the mist of the
field. I believe
in romance. The many kinds of love. The way my child could be my lover and no
one would have to weep. | 
