She who owns the sky – freewrite

by heytherewildflower

Canopy from the throne of Charles VII of France, wool and silk, attrib. Jacob de Littemont, c.1425-50.
in the sky, not form, but color, reigned.
cracky house makes me feel sick and dirty.
let’s discuss the rouge linga – rouge pussy cat.

They called you sky goddess,
“cracky-chan is gone and my life withers”
the black snag on the white lit screen
she who owns the sky, a garrish human body,
a speck in the eye of sight which they longed to pluck out, increasing desire
as you receded into the wash of digital mythology. fleck in the beady eye,
bloodshot eye of the magpies, vultures, bottomfeeders –
each was average, anonymous, and Eichmann. Every man and no man.

But there was no system here. no law decried – the cruelty was individually mastered.

Anonymous ran wild for your cunt. The tirade, communal rage and communal worship.

I can’t recall the accidental magnificence of being fifteen- I can’t recall the ideal,
so can’t bring to light what I formerly thought magnificent.

nor can I recall my old fantasies but  remember the singularity of limbs, and a body,
and a soul which craved the deity,  a godliness. She who owns the sky
is a sad girl with opulent dreams, or an clumsy girl with fetishes.

such pink cheeks, and fluffy cat ears – so fucking sweet and cute.
underneath the table, crawling on all four, pouncing like a cat, going limp.
to create an image, to set the light. and blood between the legs was a prop too.
I do not want your attention. I do not want blood between my legs, I want blood on my face
and I want to see my face and my blood and image painted. but I do not want your discussion of me.
I just wanted to look at myself.

The night, my bedroom, the chill, I could not sleep. I wanted to see myself for company,
to become familiar with presence, to correct the loss,  the absence,  or too much  time-
to make experience rich with my individual being.

I did not want a cult. I do not own the sky. If this is my body, I can’t explain it to you,
I could be any other creature and to not explain would be normal.

the rug on my back smelled of old toast, mildewed nubs nestled in the crack of my ass, I felt aggressively. aggressive stillness, aggressive babyhair down between my asscheeks mingling with old crumbs and dust and tight ringlets of rug.

I am driven into hiding. the escape is mundane, not fantastic, as once I might’ve imagined an escape.

Hot blood does not run cold, it only dries. who does not like that color? haematic ink, plastic red, primary, primordial, and unlike lipstick. not so sticky, not so chalky, either it clotted or the velvet ran thin like viscose thread, or if tears had strands of hair, the vagina was like an evil eye kicked, then pricked, then stabbed. and the breasts were full and sore as bruised moons.

There was blood. but it was not my blood. I was the blood. I was not my own master, no better than I controlled my excretions. the blood bifurcating on the thigh, dabbed on the cheek, split there too, winding toward my chin.

the tampon I’d removed looked no different than a teabag left on the kitchen counter hardening like an artery.

I try to remember being fifteen, the tender skin of yesterday’s flesh. Armpits with emerald undertone, forearms pink as white veined quartz. the scabs peeled back, pink as the skin of a shaved cat.

Anonymous collectively felt the blossoming of first love. A ballad of strange longing, a strange song