Being on a 28-day menstrual cycle makes everything nuanced. When the 27th day approaches, I am an emotional mess, my face gets re-aligned, I cry at nothing, my back feels twisted and broken. 

By the 28th day, my silk robe is stained, my fingers are bloody and my husband strokes my face and re-assures me he’ll get the stain out. 

This was my Thursday morning. 

I was hoping I was pregnant, so I mourned my bleeding uterus by wearing a black bohemian dress, crushed blue velvet tights and sandals. 

When did I become this person? 

I am an upgraded version of myself. 

A version I was adamant on never becoming. 

I smoke a couple of cigarettes before I head to work, eat some fruit that my thoughtful husband cut up for me and thank him by sucking his beautiful cock and having him come in my mouth. 

1.2 billion of his children now swim in my belly. 

I love him. 

I park and know that when 4:30 p.m. rolls around, I will have forgotten where it is that I parked my electric blue car. 

There are meetings and lay-offs and bad coffee and people from the sales department that look like Russian serial-killers & Cher drag queens. There are bitter old yogis who have been on too many Ayahuasca trips and uptight men in bad unironed suits. I eat cashews for breakfast and stare at my screen that loads at the pace of a dying turtle. 

I want to be home, writing, making love, writing, making love, napping, smoking, taking strolls hand-in-hand with my new husband, writing…

Instead, we’re inside the “war room” talking about the future of our jobs, and the eventual changes that feel like impending doom. I stand in the corner because that’s where I belong, hidden and opaque. 

I ask the hard questions because everyone is too scared to speak up. 

“Will we be compensated monetarily if we take on a larger load?”

“Why are you making us wait till June 30th to determine our fate in this company?”

People laugh nervously and I bleed onto my adult diaper. 

I am a warrior, I think to myself. 

A beautiful bloody warrior queen. 

The kind that moves effortlessly through office halls and goes home to oil portraits her talented husband has painted of her.

It’s a good life when I’m not on the 9th floor on Brand Blvd.

Yes, this fear comes from being bombed in the womb. 

Civil War trauma in the womb.

Grenade womb.

Volcano womb.

I blame the womb for everything. 

Blaming anything else makes no sense. 

That’s the egg. 

The beginning. 

The rest is a consequence. 

This moment is merely pounded behavior, mixed with GMO’s. 

I speak and write funny cause I taught myself your English. 

You Americans are thieves, you’re complicated. 

You’re lucky I can even express myself correctly. 

I’m lucky that my accent is next to dead. 

That I watched Valley Girl enough times to kill it. 

Kill it. 

Murder it. 

Bury it.

I thank 80’s music and PBS for my education. 

I thank MTV and VH1’s Pop-Up Videos.

Life-changing events and birthdays are to blame for my poetry. 

Celebration of the womb. 

Keep the theme, keep the womb in the forefront of the mind, because you’ll notice, that all you do, all you think, all you fear, all you love goes back to the beginning. 

Nostalgia lives, because the womb calls it. 

 

I need sleep.

 

I need to crawl back to the womb.

Tragedy. 

I’m always tragic. 

My very birth was tragic. 

My mother had me standing up, almost killed her. I didn’t, but it always plagues me. So I hold her in my heart and she held me in her belly. Evens out I think.

How was I supposed to know that I was gonna meet the love of my life at 38? 

How was he to know? 

We walked around, him in snow, me in humidity, clueless that life had her own plans for us. This world, this world that erupts and shakes is only here temporarily. It all seems so fragile after an earthquake, a tsunami, a hurricane. 

We are nothing. 

So love hard. 

Love and love and love and love and then love some more.

We are temporary nothings pretending to be somethings. 

We use paper to buy costumes. 

To look like we have shit figured out. 

To pretend that our fragility is a farce. 

We give of ourselves to predators and sometimes we break some hearts. 

We solidify, become calloused and then slice open our chests again, and again, repeat repeat repeat.

Back to tragedy.

When he is away, I feel tired, lethargic. 

Innocence intact.

He’s a warlock. 

Banishes ghosts. 

Indulges in love and doesn’t cloud his feelings. 

Wears them like an amulet. 

Knows we’re only here this once, so he lives passionately. 

Wants answers, but knows there are none. 

Loves me like children love. 

Unabashedly.

I think of catastrophic events, I think of the possibility of being far from him when the Earth decides to swallow itself up. 

I wonder if he’ll feel me dying? 

If I’ll feel him slipping back to the cosmos?

If the crows that follow us when we’re apart will come to assure us that the other is somewhere thinking of this great love?

Death doesn’t scare me anymore. 

I’ve died a million times, the difference now, is that I’m alive. 

I never wanted children. I never played with dolls; I never coddled them or wanted to take care of them. I cut their hair real short and made them have lesbian sex.

I made them have threesomes with other stuffed animals and drape them with ridiculous outfits.

I’d open them and re-stuff them, hold them at night mostly because of loneliness, not for an aching need to take care of something.

The years skimmed by and everyone began to have sex and spit out children like baked bread. Not just one kid, but several. I’d see young mothers in continuation school with a history book in hand and a baby on their lap.

It was terrifying.

One boy got HIV. Others got herpes, chlamydia etc…

I was so scared, and luckily pretty unattractive. So at the very least, I had some leeway into safety. I was also friends with the town faggot, so I was shunned straight-away.

Dubbed a lesbian since I dressed in boys clothes.

Ridiculous.

It’s fucking comfy.

I guess playing lesbian Barbie with friends didn’t help.

The fag was great though, at the time. He and I broke fag-hag/faggot barriers in that pathetic little town. We’d stay up nights high on meth, smoking cigarettes outside my balcony.

We’d make up B-movies in my living room and take the bus to the beach.

We charged the neighborhood children money to watch porn in the comfort of his house since his parents owned a video store and were always home late. Funny what you can get away with while puberty is lightning strong.

Anyway, I never wanted children. I’d rather get a pug.

A beauty of a pug, too with an apricot fawn coat and a flat squishy face that I’d adore till it died.

I’d give it the attention I never got, minus the teen-parent-drama. It’d love me every day the same and never talk back or do drugs. It’d sleep and snuggle next to me and never get sick of the same food.

I’d name him Socrates, since the man was stocky & short, with bulging eyes and a snub nose. It’d be fitting. Like most philosophers and pugs alike, he’d showcase ignorance and end up looking like a fucking genius.

Yes, I’d rather have a pug. I never wanted children.

Except for when I did.

Why do we look like all the great loves? he asks as we fall asleep.

 

I love this man.

 

LOVE.

 

Why must I have an office job instead of being at my grimy soft studio apartment next to the one I love?

 

I should be churning out writing while he churns out art…

 

WHY?

 

We are not meant to be in tall buildings, inside small offices.

But I have health insurance

 

We are not meant to have nature as an unattainable thing you can watch through frosted glass.

But we have a courtyard with cacti.

 

We are not meant to ingest 8 cups of coffee a day.

I bring creamer I got on sale cause no one here deserves good things.

 

We are meant to do everything BUT that.

 

I drive through Los Angeles and its May Gray.

A soft pillow of clouds hugs its skyscrapers.

Everyone is in a hurry, pretending to have their shit together.

They probably work in a fucking office.

 

No sign of heat anywhere and that concerns me.

This time last year my father was dying and the heat was unforgiving.

Hours were spent inside clinic cafeterias.

In pews by the information desk.

In hard chairs taking soft naps.

Screaming heroin addicts.

Holes drilled in my father’s head.

Hospital Arias.

A symphony of catheters.

 

 

This year is different.

I died and died and got my lungs handed back to me.

Got my heart chewed and wrapped in soft fur.

A breath of fresh air.

Poisonous in its danger, but healing in its power.

 

This is wedding season I’ve heard say.

Time to exchange chaos and make promises of both love and disappointment but love nonetheless.

A promise of forever. A forever that lasts as long as you do.

 

Lately, my death anxiety has been replaced with an eagerness to live.

To remember why I’m breathing.

The thought of him helps.

Our love is ancient.

Pure.

Filthy.

Beautiful.

It is everything sacred, innocent and genuine.

I miss him.

 

Time to go home.

 

Someone should’ve asked me if I wanted to be born. It’s not fair to come out your mother’s belly without a clue, without being able to walk and gather berries. Without having to suckle her breasts for too long before you can suck on some other nectar.

I’ve had friends who claim to remember being shot down to earth. Friends who felt their souls injected into their bodies.

I wish I felt something, but the penchant to hold in my pee is the only thing I got. I hold it, till it hurts, till I have to walk swiftly down halls and almost burst at the sight of a toilet. The relief is as gratifying as a warm shower. I like to pee in there too. Womb fantasies.

Who knows why I do it, really. I mean, I can put a symptom on it, like any self-aware American would, in order to make some sense of it, to name it and tuck it away. But I like complicating shit. I like making things appear far more important than they are. Instead, I’ll pay some neatly paced psychotherapist to give me her opinion. Here’s my 15 dollar copay. Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.

Make it quick, about a year, and make sure that the residue is wiped clean; I’d hate to do extra work after all those visits.

I would have loved to have been privileged enough to end up at mental hospital. I’d love to have been poked, pricked and nurtured. But that costs money, and I had laundry to do and the parents had rent to pay.

Weren’t my rampant, lively masturbation sessions at church some kind of clue that I needed help?

I don’t know, maybe I hid it well and made it all look normal. I’m trying to make sense of it in hopes that I don’t keep pointing my fingers in blame, though I love having an excuse to be angry.

I’m a leper; a tender tainted thing. I can’t see what you see, because what you see is wrong. My pain is too big too immense, and the fear of commitment is too real. I’ve lost the sense of what it is to be human and I’d rather die now than later.

Dramatics are my thing and I tend to indulge in them like velvet. I’m struggling with that peace, I’m struggling with all these hugs and whistles aimed my direction. Soft arms melting at my hip. Apple gifts from Hungarian workmates hoping to make amends. Two floors full of neurotransmitters running amok. I can almost feel it on the fibers of my skin. Still, it’s my 38th year and my cells have regenerated and I’m not the same person I was seven years ago.

food-poisoning nostalgia circa 2013

I wake up.

Undress.

Shit.

Shower.

Brush teeth.

Wash face.

Put some sort of lotion on my skin.

Some deodorant.

Underwear and bra.

Slip on a vintage velvet dress and some clunky shoes from my High School days…

Black knee high stockings and pull my hair away from my face.

I look green.

Sick.

Something is terribly wrong with me.

I can feel it swimming in my stomach.

I can hear it as I close my apartment door.

It grows as I drive against the sun.

It wants to be birthed, this thing.

I smile and attempt conversations.

Sad attempts.

It’s coming up now, this thing, this fucking feeling of cold damp skin and a beating heart.

I proceed to work, to pretend,

I’m so damn good at pretending.

But it’s dilating, it’s broken and exposed.

I need to go home.

I walk out with class, hoping no one questions me; I can’t imagine talking at this point.

I light a cigarette.

First mistake.

I spiral down, down, down the parking lot, exiting and optimistic that everyone is at work now, and no traffic awaits me.

The detachment from the self begins now.

I can feel my hands on the steering wheel, I can feel the wheels below me turning and I can see the traffic moving in a straight line in front of me.

But I’m nowhere, I’m not there.

My gut and my heart, they’re driving, they’re the ones attempting this drive home.

Inside myself, I chant and remember that it will all be over soon, the feeling of nausea will be replaced by sleep. I will be able to cover my goose-bumped skin into a ball and whine and chatter my teeth until sleep finds me.

Sleep…

I drift and remind myself…

“I want to drown in the zephyr that Los Angeles brings this time of year, and wane into an aftertaste, a scent, a vision and wake up once again in the darkness.”

Nothing like a broken heart and a poisoned gut.