from Not A Very Big Box
the coke mixed with well with the wine. in the box, he gave me that. but he gave me that out of the box as well. I never overdosed but once I did 9 grams in two days, didn’t stop although my nose was bleeding & I think I burned a hole thru a nostril. the other girls laughed, but they knew they couldn’t compete. so they took out their needles. which he never offered me. a token of love as I chewed on the gristle of it. the spawning took place at that exact moment, the night cackled, crackled, a personable smoothness only the night could have concatenated with my energy, which may be able to be explained by the fact that I was plugged into the wall like a computer. the nowness of it ran thru me like circuitry. what I would have done. he unhooked me & folded me casually, elbows breaking porcelain. flageolet to blow process baking of the pumping of(of only)the right ventricle & the temporal lobe of the brain, to hear his voice, I said sit in the corner & shit up remember that it was so funny I almost pissed myself that’s what you get for showing too much cleavage at a bar. and the milk-honey flows thru my veins when I get a chance to steal it, it goes straight up my nose. why not. onsite cheating. though not his kind. not the hijacking of the mind; take those hands away from your eyes he says, and CRASH SLAM go the pots in the kitchen the ones he hasn’t eaten from but when he cooks his K they get crusty plus I have to scrub the burned spoons. this is for your missing eyes, he says, as I see him lean him in to lick my face with a caterpillar tongue. the misadventure of fragile of a sugar-sucker licking sap from between a girl’s thighs in not a very big box. the smell of the wood burning. she with her black / burgundy wine hair, staining my pillow. quintessence of how to use my bed in sin. my bed. in sin. quietus. a final silencing as I watch, eyes taped open. an aorist. just to watch that one second, in not a very big box.
wide straddling legs & only a dilemma about who to fuck, I think she got off. lucky. Ha.
I am folded into a folio. I wouldn’t mind, but I have to tear my nails to blood because there is nothing to write with, except this pencil, diminishing. I can only think of one word anyway: snake. I try to spit the word out, but it sticks like bad maple syrup. I can’t get it off my tongue. I would have done the same. I do not speak thru my wounds but my oxygen. if the rivers exist, one is purling between my legs, a forwardway I’d like to kill.
so, picture me : long blonde hair, light, champagne colored to my breasts. blue eyed, shot with lightning yellow. 110 pounds. still in my cage I dressed in dior and armani. I know what you think. rich bitch. well, rich, yes. bitch, yes. but the two together don’t work I even have nice jewelry. so you envy me, right? woman dissolved in water. I even have icarus wings; in this glass not a very big box it seems to be getting close to scalding in here when I watch fuck, fuck away. dope makes you fuck like superman, he said to me. & so I witness it. now paraphrase this : once young dumb struck animal trap heavenly inside of self / self-examination but carbon dioxide storm aeolian winds beauty 13 years old existed once a shared oxygen crystal lattice shattered quailing febrile her shot of dope stolen & the end comes right after the beginning hermetically sealed.