tw: mention of s*icide
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6/19
i snatch out the wet girl that's trapped within the layers of skin and bones and blood and dirt and blue. i dip her in sriracha (burn baby burn) and reform her into a hot bitch with horns.
i'm not going to kiss her. i'm not going to love her. that's sickness and i may be ill, but not enough to kiss her. it'd be like kissing a black hole. or like hugging a dead squirrel. or like calling my mother on her birthday even though she threw a plague unto me the last time that i called her.
she sits in front of me. a sharp contrast: hot and cold, blue and red, beauty and the dilapidated house in which she's confined to. but, she says that my skin is a protector and my bones are sturdy and my blood is warm and the dirt within me is fertile and the blue creates graceful storms that look like van gogh's nocturnal blue swirls.
she thanks me for saving her from the blue. she says that the storms usually aren't as catastrophic as they were today. she says that the house would've become an atlantis and she would've died, which would've made me a black hole. and i would eat and eat and eat until everything would've reverted back into nil. i would've been doomsday.
i ask her what i am and she says: a catastrophe. i ask her what's wrong and she says she wonders the same question. i ask her if there's a man who controls everything out deep in space and she says she doesn't know. i ask her if the sun would still love me even though i'm shrouded in nocturne and she says she hopes so. i ask her if she understands algebra two and she says that she doesn't. i ask her if i'll get a 3.9 grade point average next year and she says that she hopes so. i ask her who i am and she says that i should know.
i sigh. she sighs. i crack my knuckles. she cracks hers. i yawn. she yawns. i take off my shirt. she takes off her shirt. i cut an onion. she cuts an onion. i cry while cutting the onion. she cries while cutting the onion. i lay down on the living room carpet. she lays down on the living room carpet. i look at myself in the mirror and she is behind the mirror.
she's of no use. she cannot provide me with any answers. i wash off the sriracha and i throw her back into my chest. she gets swallowed by my skin and bones and blood and dirt and blue.
i go to sleep. i wake up with a cavity. i'm hungry, so i eat eat eat whatever is in sight. my phone. my bed. my socks. my sneakers. my grandmother's bible. my grandmother (mushrooms). the refrigerator (you could've just looked inside first). the television. the dining room table. my grandfather (chocolate). my uncle's laptop. my uncle (vegetable pizza). my house. my neighborhood. a dead squirrel. the church. the entire city. my school. the suburbia filled with ivory dermis and dead presidents. the state of indiana. ohio. illinois. the midwest. the northern united states.
people are screaming. sirens are blaring. men in blue fire silver at me. i eat it all up and then i eat them. the news is full of journalists proclaiming that a hungry girl is ravaging the united states. i eat them. men who blended their brains twenty five years ago hold up signs made out of cardboard and written on with sharpie: THE END HAS COME! WE WERE RIGHT! THIS IS IT! I GUESS THIS IS WHAT CHRIST IS SUPPOSED TO LOOK LIKE! i eat them as well (a bit eccentric like birds dipped in static i can't describe it).
the rest of the world worries and flees. they lock themselves up in their homes. they cry out to their lord. some read their holy books. others fuck for the last time. some drink wine and wait for their demise. others continue on about their day. some write out a love letter to their secret crush. some eat dinner for the last time. others prepare their own end instead of waiting for it.
i eat the rest of the united states. north america. south america. the atlantic ocean. motherland. europe. asia. australia. the pacific ocean. south america. the north pole. the arctic ocean. antarctica. the world. the sun (i'm sorry mi amor, but i am hungry). my baby tastes like tangerine and a supernova.
the aliens throw their bombs and their missiles and their advanced weaponry of which i've never witnessed and cannot pronounce the name of. some plead and ask and bargain and pray. but i just eat them anyway (metallic meat).
i eat mercury. i eat venus. i eat mars. i eat jupiter. i eat saturn. i eat uranus. i eat neptune. i eat pluto. i eat the kuiper belt. i eat the milky way. i eat andromeda. i eat every other galaxy in existence.
he knows that it's coming. he tells the seraphs to prepare for a battle worse than what was expected. the seraphs launch their sparks and glitter and fires and spears and guns and bright powers at me. i eat them (cotton candy).
i eat the control man (an apple). the man in the basement doesn't even touch me with his pitchfork and neither does his followers. i eat them (tangy and spicy).
i eat everything.
i let out a rumbling burp as i sit back in a blank space.
