My hair crumbles,
my skin defies.
My teeth work small magic, devolving.
My brain spits, it winks and it levies.
Mine is the body that knows enough
to run itself through the rote of devastation.
Mine is the body that will expel its own heart,
will knot and swell its own flesh into tumours.
You should expect it, says my daddy,
and he's kissing goodbye to his brain,
he's spitting candies into my shoes.
You should expect it, says my grandpa,
petting my forehead and laying down
into the grass, into the dirt,
into the city I would run away from.
You should expect it, says my grandma,
beating her sons, wringing her hands,
loving supremely.
You should expect it, says my maw-maw,
massaging her breasts alone,
a fleshy adulteress,
a master of abandonment.
I turn the locks on all the doors
and secure the windows.
There I am,
in the dark that does not know anything
about what will happen to me.
There I am!
The adulteress.
The beater of sons.
The loving and the loved.
The quiet oaf marching toward hysteria.
The cynic does not know how to pray
to anyone but herself.
I pray sweetly to my body,
and kiss my hands like two popes,
but I can still see it just fine.
My legs marry one another and then crumble,
meeting my hands as a bed of ashes.
When the smoke clears,
all of my scars have blown away.
Finally it's quiet in my head,
but I'm not there to enjoy it.
save

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Naturalis, in the year 524 AD.