You’re running out of lines, cat.
Name me whatever you want: siren, phoenix, demon. Any made up thing you want.
Anything but this broken woman operating in devil’s skin because that has been the world’s gift to me
And I’d gladly trade my human parts, my human heart for ugly legs and a gruesome beak just to fly away because I asked God to take you from me and He fell silent. Twice.
So here I am Medusa. No. Not snakes. Here I am a mortal bird. Not a phoenix. These are my fragile feathers and you didn’t take my wings but you aren’t tall enough to give them back to me.
So here’s the match and the gasoline. Here’s us together. That’s us. The match is gone. The gasoline has left a ring of black emptiness. And the bird is dead and God remains not just mute, but deaf.
You have one line left.
My heart is a torture chamber.
Is your machine out of submission
Everything is stained glass
Everything is stained
Everything is glass
Everything is multicolored and sharp.
Everything is broken. I am cutting my hands, feet, and face with everything broken. Through layers and layers of skin both thin and thick and hands pinned and hair wet and feet naked.
He took my magic, but you killed it.
I can’t levitate out of this or extend my neck or arch my back or shrink into something so tiny I can fake a disappearance.
And I parade in my monster skin with a fake
reflection, a funhouse mirror you
made held for me.
These, part practice for my Halloween costume but more specifically a tribute to how I’ve felt nearly this entire year, that my pain,
unknown yet monstrous, was obvious and plainly on my face every day, minute, second, when I talked and laughed, when I stopped dancing.
This is my city. And you want me
to open my mouth, light the match
so in your flight your eyes will glow
with the flames of beauty and
You are the smoke in my lungs, the shadows
in my reflection. You are the match to the
hellfire gaining height in my chest.
How will I rise if you take my funeral pyre, if you are my funeral pyre. If you take my ashes and swallow them then I will be nothing but burn scars, hidden in your throat.
Push me to expiration. Push me past it. Into it. Into fire.
I became fascinated with this theory from Freud years back. Probably because of the attempts of some* men to shame me for my sexual behavior, etc. and the way I was raised (the way we were all raised) and it has stuck with me.
In psychoanalytic literature, a Madonna–whore complex is the inability to maintain sexual arousal within a committed, loving relationship. First identified by Sigmund Freud, under the rubric of psychic impotence, this psychological complex is said to develop in men who see women as either saintly Madonnas or debased prostitutes. Men with this complex desire a sexual partner who has been degraded (the whore) while they cannot desire the respected partner (the Madonna). Freud wrote: "Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love."
The more academic outline: Madonna-whore complex | Applied Social Psychology (ASP)
I took more as the Madonna than I did as the Whore but the whore ones were the ones I kept more of either because I was wearing more makeup or because they were darker.
It was trying to force myself to recognize that people see me two ways, maybe at the same time causing confusion or maybe changing their minds when it is convenient to them or when they wish to be cruel without conscience.
I have other collections of pictures like these but with different themes. It was something I did throughout the end of summer into the fall when I felt chaotic and it helped me focus on the present and not the rawness of my emotions and their spiraling.
These were taken after I came home a day early from San Francisco where I had drank too much, wandered the streets alone, drunk as fuck, and stopping to make friends with a homeless woman and her dog at nearly 1 AM.
He says come here and you go.
Definition of cave:
A hollow place in the ground specifically a natural underground space large enough for a human to enter.
Form naturally by the weathering of rock and often extend deep underground.
This place will stay empty
Not like something was taken from,a cave
But like when the cave was made by weathering winds. And meant to stay empty yet,still be big enough for a man to enter.
So fill it with flowers and animals and books of poems and folklore. Friendly cryptids and ghosts that stay not out of anger but because it’s too beautiful and heaven is too far away
Not words that have wings made of distance. Not tools to break things that shouldn’t have existed. Not you not him and not a hundred days made up of nooses and quiet bullets.
The voice of someone you love, thunder
I don’t think you even tried at all; please stop trying
“Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.” ~Dorothy Dix
*Silverscreen effect added for visibility*
My first pictures inspired by La Llorona, the weeping woman. (Also filed in “Shit my dad used to tell me to scare the shit out of me”.) She inspired the sorrow, the fury, and the regret of a woman in love and scorned as well as parts of my childhood that remind me that half of me came from Mexico.
Also Countess Bathory, who has fascinated me since I was 6 or 7 years old. She inspired the vanity in these pictures.
The veil is not a wedding veil. It is a Catholic mass veil. This is another element of my childhood. Being raised in a strict Protestant religion through some of my earlier childhood and into my early teens, I was forced to believe that the Catholic religion was the religion that would bring the Anti-Christ out, that everything done in the name of the religion was both evil and against the Bible.
Because of this, I have grown to have a strange fascination with the religion and the practices. Though I have long left my childhood religion and believe all structured religion to be a cancer on humanity, there are certain things that I was told that have stuck with me, that I sometimes rebel against. And that is why the veil is in these pictures.
to his heartbeat
this is not a monster; not something to be hidden in the dark for an eternity
or something you put in your mouth to choke on or swallow – this cannot be
Close enough to eat
But not close enough to trace
The whole picture with fingers
this is not a monster; not something to be hidden in the dark for an eternity (Posted on September 3rd, 2017 on Fictionaut as “the pit”)
or something you put in your mouth to choke on or swallow – this cannot be
because you let stars define you
We are our mothers. I am my mother.
I thought I understood your pain before. I did not.
I am not just holding the fringes. Mother,
I have your pain wrapped around my neck.
It is mine.
I understand, momma, I get it. Love cannot be
described in words that you make up yourself, like
trying to describe every ocean in the world with
a handful of words that should only be used
to describe one shitty pond.
Possession owns the gateway leading to the trap
of his hands and the heart of a woman, my heart,
is the prison. I know, mom, I have spent years wading
through my flesh and the flesh of others. How many times
have I confused the flesh of man for the flesh
of his heart, I can’t count.
When I was trying to make up my words, I saw
my reflection and saw my mother with the torment
over her head, reminding me of the definition
of a filthy woman being teased with the possibilities
of redemption and being clean again. We were
never born clean, mother. Faulty humans who
lie and steal out of desperation that life might
mean something beyond the fight against
being dragged again and again.
What’s coming up for me, mom? Children that I leave
because I don’t want to expose them to the terrible
person I might become when my heart decides that
it will explode if I can’t run, the quiet slip into
domestication where I become fused with cleaning
products and a mop. I know you don’t know.
You knew what I know, nothing about how
to save yourself. Everyone else goes first,
Mother, we are too kind for escape plans.
Drunkenly, lines were crossed. I couldn’t hold my head; he still had control f his hands. He chose to sit between us, and chose me.
It absorbed me, the exchange of music and histories. It was as if we were strangers falling in love; like we never spoke before. No end.
He will never love you, you know that version of him would be destroyed, temptation changes men like water can make you clean or, at least, wash the dirt off.
You always do this, you always do this. It’s not real, nothing is real. This is why you hoard the light, the good men. But none of them are good after you, not one.
I don’t know what to do with you – can’t you let this one go? Don’t take the bait, don’t lay traps of your own. Why is it like this? There’s no reason to read ahead – stop.
STOP: Turning men into monsters, bloodying your fingernails shuffling hexes.
Men are monsters, men are mirrors.
The best, the worst – the reflections never match in this game of hunting and stealing, of turning everything inside out onto the floor, up to the sky.
There’s this man and he is pure, his scars sitting prettily over his damage. He doesn’t love me but his damage reaches for me with graceful fingers, in my dreams and right before sleep.
But they’re monsters.
I want their souls.
I’m just a witch, a whore, my hand pulling them into early graves. I can’t stop.
It is not my heart. My heart is quiet. My heart thinks nothing. It is my soul, her teeth, her lack of control.
What is it that God forgot to give me to turn this thing off?
Posted on Fictionaut November 6th, 2016 but written April 2016
As Internalized: queen of clowns – unedited
These are broken up separately on their respective dates as well.
“I could flip this bitch, easy.” He wasn’t talking about the car,
he was talking about me.
My baby died inside of me, I haven’t suffered enough.
I tried to kill myself, I haven’t suffered enough.
I cut off my hair, burned my fingers and toes, and gave up sex,
I haven’t suffered enough.
The devil isn’t real, the devil isn’t horns and a mess of red flesh.
The devil is in the act of
feelings that are like fire in a dry forest, things that cannot be controlled.
The devil is a scorned woman; she is the one that pushes me from God,
not him. He was just the doorway out, the primer, the guardian troll
at the bridge, at the palace gate in my head.
Fuck you, I don’t want to fuck you.
Posted on Fictionaut October 9th, 2016