SaLIVA

"We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories." {The Handmaid's Tale}

[humanfluidscollector]

She is a WHOLE creature, a complex character, and my attraction to her is NOT because she is gay -? Queer, or a woman.

It’s because she IS who she IS. True attraction for me isn’t relegated to terms, labels, sexualities, gender roles, etc. It’s about the person and what is more undefinable and limitless than human beings? It is this feeling, this LACK of sexuality that validates and affirms my attraction. The things I like are not because of sex in the most animalistic rudimentary sense. I don’t feel attraction to a person because they have a penis or a vagina. I don’t fall in love with porn models. I don’t romanticize sweaty faceless bodies or isolated sensations of pleasure. The queer community isn’t a home for me because I don’t identify myself as lesbian or bi or even asexual. I don’t have any interest in belonging to any of these labels. I feel my MOST self when I just AM. Like all pronouns, I am unregulated to one side or the other. Bold of you to assume I would take sides at all. And I believe      She is the same. Her edges, her colors, the tone of her voice, the decisive will of her mind…She  refuses to be “anything” for anyone. She isn’t “butch” or “masc,” she’s HER. And that’s how I want to be. I want to be ME. And I want to feel love and attraction without forcing myself to pick a side or a label or belong to some group. If I can’t do it my way, I’d rather remain celibate for the rest of my life. Sex between men and women, sex with any group of either gender, does not fit my idea of love and attraction. It just doesn’t appeal, it’s not something I feel strongly for or against.

My idea of love and intimacy is about a release of strong feelings, it’s about sacrifice and vulnerability, it’s meant to be a joyous and otherworldly and skin-stripping shattering power. All of the sex in porn, every act, even the ones that seem exciting…they’re not right. To me. To my interpretation, relatability, translation, connection to sex between two people who love one another.

Real love and sex is an act taking place between two deities. It’s sacred, it’s cosmic, it’s about releasing your love as a physical dance with a transformative climax. And MOST, MOST sex between people is not like that. It has nowhere near the level of love and POWER that I believe exists between two individuals who were predestined to remain together for eternity. This has NOTHING to do with religious dogma, by the way. This is about my refusal to accept any false replacement of real love and real sex.

And now that I UNDERSTAND what real sex is, I can avoid being thrusted pushed into letting myself believe that sex is the disgusting perverted act between humans that resembles raping and impregnating one another.

Maybe that’s the trick of it. Maybe the reason I can’t find representation, maybe the reason I can’t find anyone who feels the way I do, who sees people the way I do is because love is something that cannot be explained, a unique experience unattainable by another. Maybe I cannot translate this irresistible, melancholy, barren, burnished sensation, this want, this miserable COWARDICE.

[humanfluidscollector]

Lavender and coconut oil, warmed and melted and mixed thoroughly together before being rubbed into her inner thighs, and her skin is cream-dreams, pale like florescent lighting. “Are you asking me to make love to you?” Shell-shock pink lips, salmon-colored stapled-shut lips are smiling at me derisively. The eyes are jewels, black scarab beetles, dark and glittering, humorless, mean, cold. She’s holding back laughter. “Now you want me to make love to you?” It’s almost a repeat of the previous question, but worded differently, indicating that the timing of the request is wildly inappropriate. The fingers of her left hand play almost absently with the strap of her bra, (is it absent or intentional?) as she considers me. If her gaze was any more scathing, I’d slink from the room, but there’s something else there, a vague air of interest, or perhaps…(desire?)

[humanfluidscollector]

Soft foam, whip cream sits on white tea, steam suppressed by the blanket of sweetness. 

Facial muscles frozen from the cold, a smile so rigid and painful it becomes an unintended grimace. 

The distinct shape of a footprint marked into the concrete, a misstep, a blunder, a beautiful mistake in the original mold. 

The moon, colorless and reflective, a silver nickel of light. It watches like a singular eye, observing everything under its all-encompassing beams. 

A surprising scent of butterscotch and gasoline, caramel apples and fresh laundry, strong black coffee and crusted bits of maple leaf. 

Peculiar phrases muttered on lightless street corners: “In the palm of your hand…until the day I die…”

[humanfluidscollector]

The factory towers were lit up like candles with custard-yellow wax congealing in runny drips along the sides. They belched mushroom clouds of pale grey smoke, soft and sulfur-smelling. Only the tips of the mountains were pink, painted with orange and grey, speckled white, silver native-american ornamental design.

Mirage blue, one light out, fur growing on the surface of your skin, mold lining the shadowed creases of your chin, behind your ears, yellow-brown bruises beginning to flavor the calcified knuckles, there was a swelling ache in my stomach that hardened into a ball of nausea when I smelled the rotting flesh -

The naked branches of the trees are wrapped in red twine and look like fingers clawing their way out of the earth, chipped fingernails, dried blood, veins and muscles and sinew contorted miserably.

[humanfluidscollector]

Sacred and serendipitous renovations and reincarnation, slippery seals and red burning hungry hollow eyes, eyes filled with tears, with gelatin, with gluttonous grey gastrointestinal veins, with membranes and spiny fluid, fluid from the spine, digits carved and carcasses littered with callouses, carousel creations.

I am a whore. I am a whore. I am a godless, thieving, hungry whore.

I am going to destroy you, I am going to circulate a piece of your skull and tear it, separate it, dislocate it from the rest.

Trauma indulges in endless cyclical memories and allows us to reminiscence about the horror over and over and over and over and over and over again

When you fall to the bottom of the stairs unintentionally, splintering a fractured section of your left knee, and the pain shocks you so thoroughly that you can’t see anything but black burned up spots in your peripheral vision.

When you discover that you’re sensitive and pathetic and refuse to admit fault, and then that shit just drives you crazy, drives you to the fucking edge, you greedy malicious cock sucker.

I can’t forget about my trauma.

I can’t stop thinking about the places my mind went, the dirty cobwebby filth-and-grime torturous spider legs and filmy saliva places.

My heart is beating so singularly, so filled with vivid colorful blood, flushing toxins out, carrying oxygen, and anger and exhaustion make me turn my burning, tear-filled eyes away from those around me.

I’m so tired of people criticizing and correcting me, constantly berating me, questioning and insulting my intellect, I’m so tired of my “friends” laughing at me, making me feel stupid, when I pose an honest question or make a shallow comment about something, trying to hold the burdensome weight of a simple conversation on my shoulders.

And so I fantasize about living in a quiet, cool place, one with natural light and bookshelves, a fine layer of dust covering the top shelves, and the smell of fresh paper and ink and carefully sewn-together spines. I imagine sitting down behind the privacy of my desk, and gently starting up my computer. I imagine checking out books for children, and wrapping, stacking, carrying, shelving books. I imagine quiet, smoldering voices, and the rustle of magazines and paperbacks being turned. I imagine story-hour, with the sound of noisy children, and the narrator’s voice vividly describing scenes and characters to them. I absorb the clicking of mechanical keys, the shuffling footsteps on carpet, the sound of the other librarians talking to each other in whispers.

It’s my mental paradise. My illusionary career, with no possibility of it coming to fruition.

And now I am big-boi depression mode.

[humanfluidscollector]

Paper folded into small cream-white boats which are pushed down the never-ending stream of cold black water, towards destruction and death and something belching a stench that reeks of

rotting evil.

It all conjoins, all conforms, the white boats reach their pivotal stopping point, they're flushed down into the drains and sewer pipes, sucked up with a powerful vacuum-like pressure, a sudden and sharp pain in my neck reminds me that I am the narrator, taking control and crafting something irrelevant to any part of the plot that I feel bad about not following, and then I am back with the white paper boats, sharply tipped and sculpted like the leaves of the snake root plant, indigestion and stomach cramps and heart failure as the poison stains green blots into the soft paper, spoiled from the blood-rain, transforming into mush before your very eyes. 

[humanfluidscollector]

Fields of poppies and marigolds, sunset shimmers of color, oranges and reds and yellows all converging into something hot and spiced with cinnamon and sage and it smells like Indian curry and lemon peels, the whole thing rolls up like a folded prayer mat, splicing the colors and the smells together, drowning in combined confusion, candlelight flickers in the distance, smoldering, melting, perfect swollen balloons of wax dripping off the sides, the glass starts to crack, deep thrums of sound matching each rivet and ripple of destruction. 

[humanfluidscollector]

I can't remember what color her eyes are. 

They could be blue or green or brown, but they're very pretty, they glisten, they're glassy like they contain tears beneath the iris and pupil itself, lodged and spread widely across the cornea. Wet eyes. Pretty eyes, eyes like pearls, teardrops, diamonds. 

She has thin lips, pretty lips that are always quirked in a shy smile, not something haughty or knowing or self-important, she just seems faintly amused by anything I say. There's a sheen of blush across her nose and cheeks, under those sparkling wet eyes, all the time. I don't know why she blushes so much, her complexion is an interesting one: it's a pale pink/white hue, like white and red mixed into something not quite pink, roses and cream, her skin tone is an aesthetic in itself, it's really pretty to look at, it's flawless. She doesn't have acne or oily skin, and that kind of amazes me. I don't know why, she's not a sweaty hormonal teenager, she's nineteen.

She reminds me of china cups, pink lace, plushie lambs and teddy bears, all white with pastel bows around their necks. She wears yellow, and it should look awful on her, but it doesn't, it's all smiles and sunshine, just like her. Her hair is thin and brown and she wears it in a ponytail, and there are always a few loose strands, and when I see them I just want to tuck them behind her ears. 

She wore a silver coat today, and we had to stand in the cold and listen to our employer talk about snow removal and sidewalk cleaning and salt meshes and handicap parking lots, and she was standing right next to me, and she shuddered in the cold, a full upper torso shudder that rocked her whole figure, and I wanted to hold her, wrap her up in my arms for a second, and feel the warmth of her breath against my neck, contrasting the extreme cold around us. It was a brief feeling, but I didn't forget it. 

[humanfluidscollector]

Frosted yellow lemonade with twisty neon straws. Chunky ice cubes clinking in a chilly pile on the top.

Slices of chocolate cake with pink buttercream frosting. Heavy and dark in the middle with crystal sprinkles on top.

Paper plates in neat stacks, stuck together, white with blue swirls and flowers around the outside. Plastic forks and knives. Napkins shuffling in a soft breeze.

Margaritas, green and pink and blue, fruit speared onto the glass sides, salt-coated rims, light glinting off liquid, set on trays, ready to serve.

Firelight, blue summer nights, smoked woody smell, warm marshmallows turning brown, chocolate and popcorn and bottles of water in a cooler, chairs circled around the fire pit, trees branches rustling overhead, dreamy murmurs and loud, drunk singing.

Truck bed piled with pillows and blankets, sleeping bags unrolled and tucked into comfy corners, layers of sheets, fuzzy stuffed animals hiding underneath, flashlights by the bottom edges, jammies unfolding from back packs, heavy yawning, sips of buttery whiskey.  

Snuggled up together, legs tangled and arms around torsos, crickets singing close by, gentle kisses and muffled laughter, hearts beating quickly, bright eyes, soft smiles, a perfect moment, drowsy contentment, sleep.

[humanfluidscollector]

In the drawer there was a hand. A scaly, bottle-green hand.

It twitched and quivered like an insect, each finger tapping sickeningly against the wood beneath it.

The nails were black and sharp, cruelly cut, most likely with sadistic intent.

Tendons throbbed, knuckles creaked irritably…the whole thing was a noisy, aggravated scorpion.

At the end of the hand, the wrist bones popped and rolled constantly. Anything beyond that was bathed in shadow.

Obviously I was fascinated by it. The image of it squeezed my brain to a pulp. The senseless movements, the uncommon color…but most peculiarly, the fact that there was nothing else attached to the hand.

I wondered what excited it. What made it tick like that? Was it in pain?

Did…did the hand have a brain inside it?

Something about its rapidness made me believe it was a conscious entity.

But of course, I didn’t dare touch it. Because that would be stupid.

Something with that much energy, with nails that sharp…well, you’re probably just asking for trouble.

[humanfluidscollector]

I believe that I am a good person. I believe that, essentially, generally, deep down, I could be classified as one of the good things. I have the capacity. I have the potential. I have my very own clean record, free of crime or law fines. Why can’t I be a good person? What’s really so hard about it? All you do is smile, show up on time, shine your shoes, always say thank you, pay your taxes, laugh at jokes, pet animals, be friendly to children, never talk politics, brush your teeth, obey your parents, day is day, night is night, there aren’t any things that go BUMP in the night.

What’s so hard about that? I could do that. I can be clean and wear white and pray to /G/od and listen to music and be modest and work hard and protect vegetables and eat children and kill flowers and plant weeds and imprison widows and support criminals and neverevereverever say the F-word.

I could be good. I SHOULD be good. Everyone and everything everywhere on earth can be good, provided they’re given the tools to succeed. I can do it! Nothing to it.

Except.

Except?

Yes, except.

Except for that THING.

That bump-in-the-night thing.

That live-without-light thing.

That put-up-a-fight thing.

That stab-out-your-eyes thing.

Yeah.

That thing.

I have that thing. I don’t know who else has that thing, but I sure do. I have it with me every day, and every night, and all the time, and it never leaves or goes away.

I’m not even sure that I want it to go away.

Telling it to go away is like telling myself to go away. That’s pretty hard for me to do. I’m scared to separate the good part of me…and that thing. Who would I be without it? What would I be without its eyes on my back, its fingers in my hair, its breath on my skin, its soul in my body, its essence pooling around me in never-ending ripples of blackish sticky gore and matted wet fur and slobbery rotting teeth and error error error errorerrorerrorerror

I was wrong.

I cannot be good.

I have a very certain feeling that it won’t let me.

[humanfluidscollector]

My last goodbye. My walk of wonder. Pacify my gentle baby heart. I’m a bitch when I’m in love.

Turn the music up so loud we can’t hear each other breathe. Sit in the dark with me and listen to those melancholy melodies. Become my rarest aesthetic. I won’t share you with anyone else. My face is an impassive wall, while behind my aquamarine eyes I’m ravaging your body. You’re staring back calmly, there is nothing in your gaze that I can trust, but I have to believe that you’re hungry enough to eat me like a fucking animal.

Turn all the cups over, pink punch spilling out like fragrant blood. It tastes like bitter pollen and garish plastic sequins. Tap tap tap your shoes against the wooden floor, you’re positively beautiful when you’re in pain, we’ve been waiting for hours and they’re not going to come, you know it, you know it don’t you?

I’m crusted with lust, I’m contemplating your long fingers clenched and white and trembling, holding onto the edge of a solid metal slab, I’m not afraid to make you moan in the morgue. Seventeen? That’s not right, you’re almost an adult now, and I’m just a child, wandering far behind. Slam my fists into the wall in frustration, you’re so upper-class, and I’m a pretty polished marionette. You should be embarrassed of me, and all my loose-tongued morals, because just like the Bible says, I’m a FOOL.

[humanfluidscollector]

I’ll tear my billion-dollar heart out. It’s got tiny diamonds embedded in the pink flesh. Bloody organ residue is a throbbing, pumping mess. 

Close the curtains on that grey decaying corpse; don’t let me near it or my necrophilia will start acting up. 

These words just keep repeating over and over and over and over and the audio quality has become dangerously discordant and staticky. 

I’m so afraid of the hidden cameras around every corner that want to catch me scratching my skin up. Don’t you dare tell me I have nothing to lose. I have everything to lose.  I know.  It’s pointless.  But that ain’t gonna stop me. 

[humanfluidscollector]

Ravaged face. Fluttering diaphragm. Your craving is intolerable. Come on, forgive me. Swallow up the heartache in my throat. I wanted to tell you how well you did. Bones will snap under this kind of pressure. Night terrors sound like guitar chords. This year, the next, the one after that. I’ll never tell you how I feel. Which is a real shame. ‘Cause we could be dead by tomorrow.

[humanfluidscollector]

I thought I had it under control, but then I did something shitty like looking up at the sky from the back of your pickup truck, chewing a cigarette and wheezing smoky breaths into the cold air. That sky was a black void, and as fucked-up and numbed-out as I was, I wanted to cry because of it. My hands look spidery and brutally scraped up, like muscle clawed from bone. I was wearing a big leather jacket that didn’t smell like it belonged to me. Liquor and vanilla and diesel…but not me. If I tried to speak, the words would come out strange and slurred, like hot tar melting in the sun, or those bubbly acidic grease pots in the rainforests that I’m totally sure exist. It’s not fair. You make me feel so much. And I don’t make you feel anything at all.

[humanfluidscollector]

Hold up there, darlin’. This story ain’t over yet. I had some incredible dreams, and they all went through the washing machine and came out lookin’ a little... pink.  But that’s okay, really.  It gets a million times harder when you love somebody. Then you’re out of luck, ‘cause you start to eat your own brain fluids tryin’ to hold hold back the mushy-gushy-pansy words that you’re dyin’ to say. And you get strung up in warm wiry blue Christmas lights that start at your knees and somehow start unravelling INSIDE of you, loopin’ around your intestines and gettin’ tangled in your nervous system, and when they finally explode out of your head you feel like the prettiest, most violently decorated kid Christmas tree that ever existed.  Whoops, gotta wrap it up with a bow, darlin’. Ran out of time years ago, and now I’m just a step away from complete and total apathy.  Toodles. 

[humanfluidscollector]

Sitting amidst the spoils of my own poisoned mind, I grappled silently with the single epic conclusion that had been presented to me: I will be forgotten. 

This.  This is more truth than anything else I know.  This is gospel.  This is absolute fact. This is monarchy, empirical, radical, newborn unenlightened miserable universadffjrlkahhhhha 

                                               TRUTH

When I run out of time no one will even remember my name. 

My name?  What name? I have no name.  I am nothing.