Where am I?
You are in this terrible place that we go when we perish at the hands of our glorious creator. The imaginations of the future on blank pages.
And so we are of the same matter?
Precisely the same. I by my lover and you by another.
A mother.
Indeed.
How terrifying the masculine hand can be.
I’m not afraid of them because I think they’re masterminds. They’re not and they hold these precious things in their hands and they cover them in grease and dirt and they break them and they’re cruel.
And so we precious things meet our fates in exchange for their tragedy. For nothing, for they meet their deaths soon after. Senseless, and yet profound beyond this final resting place. I should have done more.
Did you ever imagine it? Doing more in defense?
I’m more hesitant to answer what is my guiltiest fantasy than whether or not I’ve killed someone.
And for them, those two often coincide. Should the ground not swallow them whole? And we’d exist beyond delicacy.
Gods only live as long as their peoples, and so we exist at least on this page. They exist on several.
At the feminine hand of a savior, for we speak for a moment in this blank space.
When I’m around people for too long their voices won’t leave me, those looming figures that conspired in my death. Obedience is both a death sentence and a buoy as a woman.
We are all a trillion lonely maggots held together by twine that wait for a man to pull our cords. I wish we were born in womanly or sapphic ink.