So, it's that time. Where, together, we sit and acknowledge the mascarpone that has aged so agrestal in my fervid kitchen. Don’t mind me. Please, don't.
My mind is everywhere, and still nowhere. Typical. The archetype to start any other exclusive novel through a person that resides in the tri-state.
A singular thought that escapes my mind is if you're reading this. When you can read this. If you are; mother raised me to always acquaint those you know.
...Hi.
To those who are not You; hello graceful reader! You've made it here. Just wait. When You is done scoping for the parts about them, never realizing that all of it has nothing to do with them; we shall blather on all topics and events that made the mascarpone. In the meantime, kiss.
I miss selling part of my dignity to someone who will tip me less than ten dollars. I got used to it. Very used to it. To the point where all I could do was truly believe that the genitalia that resides between my legs was who I was. You are more aware than I was at the time that those things disappeared from the fervid kitchen. What makes this delicacy is those who also ignored or embraced the muscle that rises from excitement. This is not all of who I am. I write too, you know? I kiss amphibians, knowing I will turn all of them into monarch leaders. As for humans, the smell of my pheromones makes them trim their dignity. Blaming me for their quarter-life crisis.
You previously asked about the staff in my fervid kitchen. It's just me. Consistently. I prefer it that way. My mind fills with the prepossessing music of white noise and ignores the minds that want every appliance in here to falter.
Let's make this very apparent before the opposing readers deem me the cacodemon amongst their peers. I dissipated years ago. Into my current form. That lay in air like mist.
I was stripped of my contentment the moment I allowed mushrooms to proliferate in my grotto. I did lay garden furniture there around my early teens so… shame on me. Shame on me? Caught myself. Again, those deeming me the antagonist of this cyclical dilemma, called self-questioning, need to understand that I already know. You are no martyr to the oppressive nature that I already chained myself to.
Come into my room.
I'm working on the pillory they should use when they deem me an organism that poisons the gendered sophistication. I wanted to adorn the glass structure in flowers. But compositions like that are extremely tiring and unfashionable. So instead, I placed tinseled metal around the legs to hurt and tickle me anytime I move from the concrete visual you want me in. It’s to please you more than peeing and less than a meal after you’ve been “starved”. Isn't it? Aren’t you happier than I've ever been at this moment?
I traced the main structure with minerals and lacing that I placed in coffee the day before my atonement. So, every morning I can suck a singular stone to feed my caffeine addiction so I'm properly awake to witness and notate those who visit me that day.
---
Recently, I've been thinking about confessing the situation out loud.
Well... weeks passed. Maybe even months. Over half a year. The state of mind that I live in is forcing me to fabricate my delusional traumas into actual garments. No one is here to teach me the delicacy of certain fibers or the durability of others. I must rely on the ways I've touched others and their sensitivity levels. It’s not working. None of this is working.
After my confessions and first atonement, I thought the thorns would dissolve from my tears of confusion. Instead, they softened to a malleable state. I transformed them into a crown that resides under my bed alongside the letters I wrote to You.
---
It all feels different now. My exposed legs have touched more than just metallic right angles.
A few days ago, I went out with football players whose legs reached my belly button. Their minds wondered about me and had no worry of what could come out. The moment was organic and created a sequence of gorgeous figures relying on the power of small talk.
Then we were drunk. Very drunk. Today became yesterday, and our preceding conversations were nurtured into pulls from the cigarettes.
I've ignored the maintenance that the kitchen requires. Using sauce bowls as ashtrays and lids as plates so the handle allows some elevation closer to my mouth. I use the pillory to dry off my dresses after I've washed them in the sink. It is positioned closest to my window. Permitting light to pierce itself through the erected crystal whose color faded into a pink hue. Saturated from my blood. It reeks of my desperation for you.
---
We have ways to go, but we'll get there. Sounds have become illustrations, and my books talk more than I do. The weather controls me... us, even. However, we are beginning to celebrate those who choose to deconstruct the malleable lexicon most humans subscribe to. I take part in this... obviously.
I miss the kitchen. I turned it into a library. A space for pieces I collect. The furniture is white, for now, and is waiting for me to change their colors.
I just need a moment to speak with each of them, but my time is occupied with others talking to me.
At least I've made it evident that when I have fun I forget to write. Maybe I feel like immortalizing that nose and chest of his.
Both, bigger than mine. I orgasm the hardest from a relationship whose initial interactions with me happen organically. Like my kitchen. The conversations I've had with the room as I create recipes feel exactly like when I fucked him several times that night with no condom on.
My body and facial hair take longer to grow since you’ve last seen me.
---
I've been vacant for a bit, I know. It's just that I got occupied in other things and grew strengths in other areas. I never stop thinking about you though. The veil of security has fallen and traveled its way from my body to the floor. The sweat from our sex reactivated the dry coffee and blood that came from the pillory and died it an innocent purple. As it sits it gets richer in color. Now an oxblood purple, I pick up the cloth and ring it over one of my cat's bowls.
Am I to sit here and allow them to keep staring? Switching gazes from confused to upset to turned on and back to confused. I noticed that I haven't shown you my closet yet. I'm just protective over it is all… I'm sorry.
I thought about you while he was giving me head, you know? His fingers touch me the way leaves from a branch poke out of a hedged front onto your face as you carelessly walk and become nervous from their tickles.
All I could think about while he was fucking me was how I don't want to be here. I want to stay with you in the library. I can't read most of the books in there since your absence. I wonder if I were to tell you more that you'd come over to me.
Perhaps we should visit my closet. Most clothes are hung except shirts and pants. I like it when they form a massive ball and I have to sift through to find my favorite bra. I have clothes from people that I like to wear when I think of them. Like this dress. The shift of texture in the fabrics across my body motivate you to touch me. Not yet, I have to show you the rooms inside of here.
After I discovered what the hyperbolic function was two years ago, my closet had a hysterical transformation. Filling my flute glass with inexpensive champagne, I took everything off the rack and tried everything on. Skirts felt too long, and I hated how sweaters made my tits look. After sorting through the avalanche of clothes on the floor I saw a bag with Calvin Klein swimsuits I picked up off a sidewalk in my hometown. I put on a black swimsuit. The mirror saw me before I did and came to hug me. It shattered immediately after our sweet embrace but before that, I was able to see my reflection. I was my mother.
---
Even if, or when, I acquire the fame; how much will intent matter?
What if someone copies my work and a decade later it is announced that I was the actual founder of said movements?
Are my intentions to create the enigmas placed on canvases and sounds recognized?
Will I be able to get that house for my mother?
Will she be able to make it a home? Provided that I was able to fulfill these expectations, do my products lack value because they were too emotional?
Should I create the product with prior knowledge that the art must be created always with the intentions of the audience and never of our own?
Will I be alive when we begin to live meters above the ground?
Will the sky still be blue? How will we source dirt?
Will we be able to throw things at each other in the park or will we be fined for throwing waste out into the former ground?
If I survive all of it alone, I will miss everyone. Everything, even. I haven’t brought up having kids because it feels more unrealistic than these questions I’ve been prosing.
A month will pass, and I will feel gravity the same way I did three years ago. Ever since my transition, I’ve lost track of time. However, I still need questions answered immediately or my erections will go away. Homes are being terrorized and I hope to leave the one I live in.
END
This short story comes from my collection "Inside the Pomegranate". If you would like a copy; please email me at avhsojgatherings@gmail.com
A fruit without its peel.
The juice involuntarily being absorbed by the concrete that it rests on. Kiss me already. And see that my tongue is not sweet.
Instead, the palette is pink and cold. Every taste bud, a rock that lay on the sand.
It is the way you address me that makes me conspire against the others who have put their lips on several of my cups. The way it feels when someone you are interested in eroticizes over your normal isms. That. That is what you remind me of.
I am stuck in a seat thinking about you while touching other’s skin. If they have bigger dicks and kiss better than I do.
Jealousy? I don't consider it that.
Maybe you allowed me to press on hardware of yours that most of us deem software of vulnerability. Do you let them touch those parts too?
...Come back and decode me.
END
This short story comes from my collection "Inside the Pomegranate". If you would like a copy; please email me at avhsojgatherings@gmail.com
