i am angry all the time.

mother. saint. wife. whore.

• I am angry all the time. I serve his food. I puff his pillow. I light his cigarette. I do it so well. His hands run through my hair, grabs my jaw, pulls at my lips. I am liquid. I take the shape of whatever I fill. I shave my head. I want her out of me. This little serving wench that aims to please. I am angry all the time.

• As a mother, I would be as efficient as a mechanical doll. I would feed them and clothe them and soothe them with cold hands. My mind, floating in space, my eyes, clouded over in a haze. With a call to my name, I would be dragged out of my world. I would smile but rage. I would raise spawns who mother loved not. I don’t love the world. But I don’t hate it enough to curse it with such.

• And the good inside of her does not have teeth yet. Her kind and calm are still a fistful of protein. Be careful. Don’t squeeze. Lay her down softly.

• Where you do want me? On my back, on my knees? In a spiraling fall from the sky to the sea? How do you want me? Drowned, parched, flayed or skinned? A sliver of life in a platter of meat? I look on; mute, passive and godly.

• And I drown. And I drown. And I keep on drowning. Shark meat, white pearl, the sea opens like a mouth. And I drown and I drown. And I keep on drowning.  

• In the murder of all our souls, I too have played my part, sisters. I have sharpened the knife and wielded the blade. I have denied who I am. I have not lived as I should. I have bowed. I have offered. I have cowered. I have sank. The situation must be redeemed, but I don’t know where to begin. I take a carving knife to my gut, solidify it with steel. I suppose I always go to extremes.

• Ah yes, God is female. Now we know. The floodgates are open. The torch has been lit. The woman loose from years of infantility. Free the nipple, moon cycle in sync, luteal phase rest. But deeper, is an innate right to be. No. Her selfishness knows no bounds. Feed her to the hounds.