The Locus of Chaos

You awaken to the sounds of a gentle stream and chirping birds. You lie on a soft bed of dew-speckled moss. Warm, dappled sunlight shines between the palms above. The air is filled with citrus and petrichor.  From time to time, angelic apparitions pass by, stopping to gently offer a warm welcome and a kiss.  And for the first time in far too long, you are completely, wholly at ease. All is well.  For W.S. I love you forever, Eva

          No, my body does not “keep score”. My body does not “keep” anything other than the necessary parts and processes with which it needs to function and thrive. When my body is hurt, it will either heal or die, but I will take care of it regardless. My body is God’s plaything. My body is the harbinger of the creative spirit and Life itself. My body is not a scorekeeper; it is a portal.

It got me young. I was fine before. I was slightly anxious at times, but otherwise fine. I was cherubic and especially vulnerable when it happened, making the assault feel particularly cruel and calculated. I can picture it in my mind’s eye like a lucid dream. The scene remains more pristine in the palace of my past than it actually was in real time. It snuck up on me that one sunny afternoon on the small grassy hill. The lengths and ends of my hair lifted gently off my neck as warm winds swept past. The other children chattered around me, clapping their hands in unison as tree branches shook above us, clapping too. Birds chirped. The grass cradled us gently. I was smiling, looking up at the summer sun that winked at me playfully through the branches. At the time, I believed Mother Nature herself smiled sweetly upon us — her little creatures. In hindsight, I realize she was grimacing. They couldn’t have seen it coming, nor could I.  How could I?  There was no way I could’ve id...

          Treading lightly into the new year; not timidly, but with intentionality in each and every step -  hyper-aware of the frigid winter wind that whips my hair across my cheeks and into my field of vision. I am attentive to the high-pitched whistle of her voice and the bitter intensity of her kiss. She is just as intense as I am.      I am attentive to the cadence of his voice and the softness of his kiss. I am overjoyed when his eyes smile into mine and how they wander across and down my frame. I am endlessly inspired when he talks frantically about the history of music and menswear and Thomas Ligotti and the ancient mystery cults of antiquity. I am proud of the way he grabs me and digs his fingertips into my skin and the marks that they leave. I am comforted by the fact that nothing is ever left unsaid between us, even if we don’t explicitly say it.

My version <3 As follows: INS: Gratitude. Self agency. Daily walks. Consuming some form of animal-based protein daily (non-negotiable). Raw organ meat. Perfecting the art of the blowjob (always in). Daily stretching (hips and legs especially). Reading fiction. Reaching out to the people you’ve been avoiding for no reason other than your own mental abstractions about not being good enough and strong feelings of shame. You know which people. You care about them deeply, and they deserve to hear from you. Reaching out to your relatives on a regular basis, especially your grandparents. Honesty. Even when it’s painfully awkward  and hurtful to acknowledge out loud. Saying no/revoking consent/being rude when necessary. Probiotics. Lending Grace to others, and perhaps more importantly, yourself. OUTS Frequent complaining. Purchasing excessive supplements and skincare products (which typically do more harm than good anyway). Learned helplessness. Abilify. Shame-spirals. Plant-based diets...

   After a while, I grow easily restless. It is as though my mind is a wild horse forced to run around a small, circular pen in perpetuity. Only he can rein me in. Only he can corral my frantic desires.  My sexuality is insatiable, but mostly in an abstract sense. It is less like a pressure valve that needs release, and more like an amorphous, gaseous haze that emits a putrid stench; crackling and sparkling dangerously. My fantasies become inverted. At Church a few Sundays ago, I became fixated on the image of Christ on the cross. His bloodied, open wounds and pointy ribs began to make me restless. I was squirming back and forth, readjusting my seat. I tried to consciously redirect my attention to my breath in an effort to ease the tension that was starting to build inside of me.  I began to wonder what Jesus of Nazareth might have smelled and tasted like. What his calloused hands would have felt like around my waist, tracing my skin. His breath on my neck. The rank,...

Pull me closer Kiss me harder I’m shaking, but not from fear Can’t you see how desperate I’m getting? Using your hands, and I’m already begging   You are my first  And I’m dying of thirst I’ve always longed to be consumed I’ve always longed to be destroyed and made anew Flesh on flesh, tears streaming Throbbing pulse, I’m screaming I want to be torn to shreds And leave your sheets a bloodied mess Rank and rancid Lush and lurid Soaking wet, but I’ve burst into flames Red moon night, full moonlight No lukewarm love tonight  Red moon night, full moonlight No mediocre love tonight Pull me closer Kiss my softer A salted, earthen taste I’m faint from this torrid mess we’ve made Thank you for opening my floodgates