this big sexy regret machine

  OUR FATHER OUR FATHER OUR FATHER OUR FATHER, WHO LIVES WITH US NOW, RESTS IN HIS SUNDAY BED. HE WILL NOT GO ANYWHERE TODAY, OUR FATHER. HE WILL NOT REST, HE WILL NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE. HE IS MADE OF WOOD, WHERE MY MOTHER IS MADE OF STONE. OUR FATHER, I LOVE HIM MORE, FOR WE WILL RETURN TO THE EARTH QUICKER, QUICKER, QUICKER. THE SALTED GROUND WE STAND UPON IS MARKED BY THE WORDS HE HAS PRAYED INTO THIS EARTH. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND WHEN YOU MEET OUR FATHER. THE WORDS HE WILL WHITTLE YOU WITH WILL NOT LOVE NOR LEARN YOU. YOU WILL BE THE ROOT OUR FATHER GROWS FROM, BUT HE WILL LISTEN TO YOU. THE WORDS OF A STRANGER ARE WELCOME TO OUR FATHER, FOR YOU ARE NOT WOOD NOR STONE BUT A FABRIC FOR HIM TO DEVOUR. TELL HIS LIFE TO HIM IN TWO PARAGRAPHS AND THE GLYPHS OF YOUR BODY WILL BE ETCHED UPON HIM. YET I AM SUFFOCATING, TRAPPED IN HIS BARK. HE HAS OUTGROWN ME.  OUR FATHER, WHO ART IN HEAVEN, HOLLOW BE HIS NAME.  OUR FATHER DOES NOT RESPOND TO ACKNOWLEDGING HIS CHILDREN, RATING KNOW...

  I seek a peace in the world, watching from my time alone, thinking about the words I’m not writing. I sit, uncertain in myself. When was the last time I felt good in this space? I live for the questions I leave myself. In my otherness, the peace I look for is found in the mothers before me, the mothers I do not talk to, the mothers I reject, and the mothers who reject me. I am a body built of the otherness of a woman who cannot be a mother, an art left for another to transcribe. Before my brother was born, my mother would take me to galleries of her choosing, some she had designed, some she found interesting. There were some I understood, some I found boring, some we took down together. These summers were spent removing art with my mother from cold, white-walled rooms, leaving them with less, but leaving the air fuller. The last summer, there were the pencils. I remember this sculpture in perfect lighting, then recovering pencils about the house from lifeless corners. The pen...

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  I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. I have the right to make mistakes. I have the right to change my mind. ...

  What are her insides made of? Are they technical? Too technical to comprehend or take apart? Why does your curiosity have to overstep somebody’s boundaries? Are they intrusive or intuitive? Where does the soul come into the mechanical? How does the soul affect the mechanical? Where do the two intersect? Where do you learn that by questioning it, you’re still indulging this way of thinking?  Worst, and best case scenario, I admit, I think I have killed you. You’re there, sitting idly, watching me panic over you. I’m pacing confusedly about your assumedly dead body. You are fine. I will be fine. Your body is dead. The soul of you remains, patiently not yet reanimate. All things inanimate are full with soul, and this soul is built from the carbon of patience. I hate how you wait. Find something better to do. Don’t look at me with dead eyes, I’m busy. I’m making myself busy. I have things I want to write. Femnist literature output, high frequency. Nonsense writing, aff...