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To whoever will listen

I do not want to begin at the beginning. To begin at the beginning, is to give space to the horror, the blood, the hurt and the untimely death of a young child.

This is not where I want to begin- so instead, I will tell you how courageous she was. She was not your usual child and thus she was predestined to tell a great story- but a great story is rarely told and thus this child made themselves into the beautiful story. A story being something you can tell others. For without this story, this child would have died with everyone else, without recognition. The child named 0 believed themselves to be a spontaneous happening, they saw nothing beautiful in their existence and saw no lasting recognition of their time or their suffering. Yet on the night of their death, they wished upon a star. A star moving through the sky at a rapid speed- before the star could land and destroy everything, the child wished for the ability to choose. The child wished on a comet of change and this comet remembered the child’s location and their wish and when it came time to begin another world. The comet found the little girl and said, “I feel you wished for another time and space. Follow me, I know the way.”   

Photography by Michelle Gutiérrez

Categories
Poetry

Alone.

You feel pleasant.

Pleasantly strange.

Foreign, in all the imaginable ways,

Isolation and regret

Lace your fingertips.

You tell me you like me like this.

Alone.

 

 

You like, alone.

You like to have me, to yourself.

How lucky I am.

How fortune, I am.

To have someone like you.

 

 

ii.

I like you.

The forest of you.

The danger you entail.

It smells,

Familiar.

Childish giggles stich my lips together.

Closed, frames create fences.

You prevail.

Climbing over me with your broad claws,

Ripping my form.

I have nothing left.

 

 

You ignore me.

 

 

I like it rough.

 

Fight more.

 

I am in submission.

Obey.

 

 

It’s a game.  

Winner takes all.

I am used to this call.

I thought she was different.

I thought she could see,

I wanted it to be her and me.  

I bow to her will,

Fear used,

Like a wheel.

Rolling me into

 

 

Weak.

 

 

I kiss her flesh.

Her meat is a smell, not a taste.

It reminds me of early days.

When I still sulked on her tit,

Feeding her mould.

She bends my bones,

She stands alone,

I know she is afraid,

To afraid to say,

She knows no other game.

Except pain.

 

 

 

Photography by Ari Richter