confession #1: i was scared of elevators as a kid. i don’t know why. maybe because they were something outside of my control, or because i hated that sinking feeling in my stomach as we went up, up, up. maybe because the elevator always led to a hallway and the hallway always led to a doctor’s office, or a dentist, or some relative with a foreign name that i’d never met. maybe because they were the closest i’d gotten to heaven before i stepped on a plane for the first time in fourth grade. maybe i could sense them. all those angels watching down on me. maybe i was shivering under the frost of their gaze.
i place the pill ██████ and swallow it ███
██████ from between my three teeth██████
██████
██████ rotting and black ██████
contaminate ██████
contaminate me.
confession #2: i never really listened in church. my mother’s sharp talons would dig into my shoulder blades, and she’d whisper in my ear that i should listen, i’d better listen. i’d stare up at her sunken eye sockets and her puffy red lips and i’d nod, i’d promise to listen, but i never really would. i’d just kind of…i don’t know. i don’t know. i just stared at the wall and thought for a good long while. about how they can keep such an accurate record of how many people are on earth and have it change with every birth and every death, over and over and over again. about how many people aren’t factored into the equation. how many people die without ever really dying. i was supposed to have a great-grandfather, but we don’t talk about him and he doesn’t have a tombstone next to my grandma and my great-aunt and the whole rest of my family. neat little rows, and his name isn’t even there. i don’t know why. maybe they just forgot. i’m thinking about what that would be like, to be the one wandering around aimlessly without a tombstone, when my mother pinches my elbow and i refocus on the priest at the front of the hall. he’s saying something. i can’t hear him.
██████ a heavy weight ██ broken ███
██████ its core carved out
████ missing its head, missing its eyes
missing its teeth.
██████████████████
confession #3: they put me on ██████ when i was in middle school. the strong stuff, like ████ and ████ only i didn’t know it then. they rattled off some words for what i was feeling, what was wrong inside my head, and then some more words to fix it. words and pills. the only things you truly need for a healthy, balanced life. i’d take the pills every evening and then turn on the radio and obsessively switch the channel. then half an hour before they started to kick in, i was looking everywhere for entertainment. joy. a █, they’d call it. i was aching for a █. or maybe to be fixed. then the meds would kick in and i’d decide on a channel, and i’d stare up at the ceiling or look straight ahead at the wall, the wall of my room, and i’d try my hardest to think. but nothing would come out. isn’t that great? nothing would come out. i could listen to every sound in the house. the creaking of the bed as my little sister settled in, the clicking and clacking of my mom’s keyboard, the ping! of pool balls as my father played on the table downstairs. the hum of electricity. the buzz of the telephone. the clink of glasses. the small, minuscule sound of ██████ when he misses a shot. the hummingbird beating of my heart.
please. teach me how to ██
push me to my knees and ████ plea, the pill
█ carved scythe ██████████
carve out ████.
my liver. my kidney. the powder, too.
steal my reason and my sense and but oh, please, spare my hands.
confession #4: i used to think about ██ a lot. i used to lie on my bed half ████ and stare up at my ceiling and think of those things. i’m not very imaginative. i can’t think the way other people can—the images don’t come out right. i had to look things up. sometimes. it didn’t help. honest to god, it didn’t. i just felt kind of sad afterwards. numb. i imagined myself in those videos, as the woman. soft and silent and malleable. what is she thinking of? what’s her favourite colour? perhaps this is why i never feel anything. maybe i think too much. someone on a blog post somewhere on the internet once said that the key to good ██ is to not think about it too much. muscle memory and all that shit. i don’t know. maybe my muscles don’t have that type of memory. was everyone else born with it? did they learn it somewhere? is there something i’m missing? is there something i was born without?
my body ██████ neck █████
eyes ████████████ liver ████████.
█████ heart, too.
█████ it’s been taking █████
confession #5: i’m scared i may have █████████
██████, drunk and mumbling and ██████████.
half beat █████████
█████████ you █ love. the hands ██████.
the sinful, sinful hands.
█████████, please. █████. let me be ██████.
confession #6: help me.
confession #7: maybe it isn’t. i’ve never been █████. how, then, would i know how it feels to have ███████?
confession #8: i know exactly how it feels to have ██████.
confession #9: no i don’t.
confession #10: yes i do.
confession #11: i am not in ███.
confession #12: i am in ███.
confession #13: i am not in ███.
confession #14: i am in ███.
confession #15: i am not in love.
confession #16: sometimes, i wish i could ████████████ just for a day or two. i want to understand other people in the very personal way in which they understand themselves. i want to understand religion as a priest, understand childhood as a mother, understood the night sky as an astrologist. i think that would be very beautiful. i also think i’d fall in love with every single life borrowed.
confession #17: i think if someone stole my skin, they’d find nothing underneath. i’d be empty. incomplete. and the skin would melt through their fingers and their fingers would run red raw. maybe they could stop it, but they won’t. i don’t think there’d be enough of me left to save.
confession #18: i think i want to ████ you but i’m worried the angels may see it.
confession #19: i’m scared of you █████████. i don’t want to burn.
confession #20: i think i want to fuck you ████████████.
████████████████████████████████████████████████
STREAM OF SEXUAL CONFESSION
confession #1: i was scared of elevators as a kid. i don’t know why. maybe because they were something outside of my control, or because i hated that sinking feeling in my stomach as we went up, up, up. maybe because the elevator always led to a hallway and the hallway always led to a doctor’s office, or a dentist, or some relative with a foreign name that i’d never met. maybe because they were the closest i’d gotten to heaven before i stepped on a plane for the first time in fourth grade. maybe i could sense them. all those angels watching down on me. maybe i was shivering under the frost of their gaze.
i place the pill on my tongue and swallow it whole
cut the excess powder from between my three teeth
cut the teeth, too
place them rotting and black on a pure white pillow
contaminate the sheet
contaminate me.
confession #2: i never really listened in church. my mother’s sharp talons would dig into my shoulder blades, and she’d whisper in my ear that i should listen, i’d better listen. i’d stare up at her sunken eye sockets and her puffy red lips and i’d nod, i’d promise to listen, but i never really would. i’d just kind of…i don’t know. i don’t know. i just stared at the wall and thought for a good long while. about how they can keep such an accurate record of how many people are on earth and have it change with every birth and every death, over and over and over again. about how many people aren’t factored into the equation. how many people die without ever really dying. i was supposed to have a great-grandfather, but we don’t talk about him and he doesn’t have a tombstone next to my grandma and my great-aunt and the whole rest of my family. neat little rows, and his name isn’t even there. i don’t know why. maybe they just forgot. i’m thinking about what that would be like, to be the one wandering around aimlessly without a tombstone, when my mother pinches my elbow and i refocus on the priest at the front of the hall. he’s saying something. i can’t hear him.
disease is a heavy weight on broken backs
an apple with its core carved out
a flower missing its head, missing its eyes
missing its teeth.
kiss me, darling. kiss me, please.
confession #3: they put me on anxiety meds when i was in middle school. the strong stuff, like zoloft and lexapro, only i didn’t know it then. they rattled off some words for what i was feeling, what was wrong inside my head, and then some more words to fix it. words and pills. the only things you truly need for a healthy, balanced life. i’d take the pills every evening and then turn on the radio and obsessively switch the channel. then half an hour before they started to kick in, i was looking everywhere for entertainment. joy. a fix, they’d call it. i was aching for a fix. or maybe to be fixed. then the meds would kick in and i’d decide on a channel, and i’d stare up at the ceiling or look straight ahead at the wall, the wall of my room, and i’d try my hardest to think. but nothing would come out. isn’t that great? nothing would come out. i could listen to every sound in the house. the creaking of the bed as my little sister settled in, the clicking and clacking of my mom’s keyboard, the ping! of pool balls as my father played on the table downstairs. the hum of electricity. the buzz of the telephone. the clink of glasses. the small, minuscule sound of shattering when he misses a shot. the hummingbird beating of my heart.
please. teach me how to beg.
push me to my knees and place the plea, the pill
the carved scythe twisted like wet tulips.
carve out my spine.
my liver. my kidney. the powder, too.
steal my reason and my sense and but oh, please, spare my hands.
confession #4: i used to think about sex a lot. i used to lie on my bed half naked and stare up at my ceiling and think of those things. i’m not very imaginative. i can’t think the way other people can—the images don’t come out right. i had to look things up. sometimes. it didn’t help. honest to god, it didn’t. i just felt kind of sad afterwards. numb. i imagined myself in those videos, as the woman. soft and silent and malleable. what is she thinking of? what’s her favourite colour? perhaps this is why i never feel anything. maybe i think too much. someone on a blog post somewhere on the internet once said that the key to good sex is to not think about it too much. muscle memory and all that shit. i don’t know. maybe my muscles don’t have that type of memory. was everyone else born with it? did they learn it somewhere? is there something i’m missing? is there something i was born without?
my body spread naked on a canvas, neck broken.
eyes empty sockets. drink my liver like hard liquor.
drink my heart, too.
god knows it’s been taking up dust
confession #5: i’m scared i may have fallen in love.
laid down, drunk and mumbling and not of sound heart.
half beat against my pen,
my art. the art you so love. the hands you so love.
the sinful, sinful hands.
let me be the flower, please. please. let me be your teeth.
confession #6: help me.
confession #7: maybe it isn’t. i’ve never been in love. how, then, would i know how it feels to have fallen in love?
confession #8: i know exactly how it feels to have fallen in love.
confession #9: no i don’t.
confession #10: yes i do.
confession #11: i am not in love.
confession #12: i am in love.
confession #13: i am not in love.
confession #14: i am in love.
confession #15: i am not in love.
confession #16: sometimes, i wish i could wear someone else’s skin. just for a day or two. i want to understand other people in the very personal way in which they understand themselves. i want to understand religion as a priest, understand childhood as a mother, understood the night sky as an astrologist. i think that would be very beautiful. i also think i’d fall in love with every single life borrowed.
confession #17: i think if someone stole my skin, they’d find nothing underneath. i’d be empty. incomplete. and the skin would melt through their fingers and their fingers would run red raw. maybe they could stop it, but they won’t. i don’t think there’d be enough of me left to save.
confession #18: i think i want to love you but i’m worried the angels may see it.
confession #19: i’m scared of your contamination. i don’t want to burn.
confession #20: i think i want to fuck you but i’m worried god will watch.