Let this be the story of how I write;
Last night I woke up from a dream as though
dropping back into my body, awoke from a dream
two weeks above the sandblasted ceiling and
was thrown six stories back into a body, into a
bed. Muscles cramped at this invasion, body
trying to push me back out, and I awoke
doubled over, face to matress, desperately
trying to rub the cramp out of my legs,
feet and hands. By the time I was me again I’d
forgotten everywhere I’d been.
Let this be the story of how I
write with both hands when one grows
unforgiveably tired, backwards and forwards
in frantic indescicion across the page.
“I can’t stop writing – so there’s an end to it” our
teacher quotes Virginia Woolf and tucks her
head back proudly against her hair, pleased
with herself for having discovered such a
goodexplanation. “I trust the Divine Child of
my dreams,” she says.
Alexandra trusts the hyperspace elf
machines, the golden child playing with colored
balls. I don’t trust anyone but Alexandra—I hope
she never finds this out.
Let this be the story of how I write
because I never get beaten anymore – because
I am oiled and vitamined and smooth
smooth smooth – tie me up, tie me down, I can
absorb anything without shaking. How can you do it
without fucking, everyone asks. Doesn’t it
make you horny? The sight of my own
applet breasts beneathe my t-shirt makes me
horny. Being beaten just makes me want more. And
sex just makes [me] that much crazier for pain.
I bite every vanilla boy harder than they can possibly
enjoy, in hopes they will eventually just once
bite me back – I am eternally sick
of adoring kisses. Kisses devoted only to the
softness of my skin, and not to me. Oh, oh,
what do I want? Shut up and I will tell
you what I want.  ¶ 3:32 AM