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maybe it’s the click of the heels that drives me. how I know  my hips match the clack of the faux leather five inch calf high boots. the process. the metronomy. it’s the walk. the noise cancelling pads on my ears. the rhythm that I begin to step into as I  turn my headphones up. 

as I begin to turn the corner, he turns the corner. and it’s the crescendo. the drums. it’s a little bit of psilocybin and edible. it’s a long time coming. something about trauma and the terms thrust upon me. arithmomaniac. neurodivergent. special. little bit of timing. I turn my headphones up. he’s ten feet in front of me and I am a slow
beating
saunter
behind
and very special.

“the woman who followed the men”

I plan to spend the year
fat; armored,
replete in web
and feast.

“Arachne”

I am practicing the arch of my eyebrow and black lipstick, smooth,  without proper training which can be messy. both of these places on my face need work and today, I  take the angled brush and dip into the brown powder. small amount. take the q-tip because I always need it. find an aristocratic line. take the Carmex. make it smooth. take the tube. smile. suck my finger. (remember you). see a black ring. take the rag and wipe it. purse my lips. my cheekbones are a subtle brown called darling and everything else about me is real southern.

“hello,” I practice.

my dress is collared white but everything else black–boots, stockings, gloves, hood.  it’s tepid out. I don’t need any real or mock wool. everyone is out and that makes this easier. I am volcanic.

“hello,” I say to a little girl dressed like a princess.

brush her father’s arm. don’t turn around. you already know.

“halloween”

first. i took the mushroom.
then i took the edible
then i took the skullcap.
then i took the mugwort.
then the house started to vibrate
and the voices began. the lurching
of the stomach, the interminable
wave pool, and with such
stupor.
then I met Mike.

so your own magic potion worked
against you?

“Mike”

the second time a man on the street
gave me his inhaler which caused an adrenaline
rush which caused my legs to move uncontrollably,
violently, but first, I was kettled by a swat team.
no, first a tank threw tear gas at me.
no, first a cop stood on the neck of George Floyd
and pressed hard and broadcast his malice
for the world.

and then I felt the floor
fall out of my living room,
crawled to the front door
until I got to the corner
where a man gave me his inhaler
and called 911.

 then I met Carey.

“Carey”

first, i choked on a cherry pit.

no, first I wrote a short story
about a woman grinding up cherry seeds
to make cyanide, then I choked on
a cherry  pit.
then I called 911.
then I saw a man with blue eyes
lead me into the truck.
Tom.
I’m in a stupor which slowly
becomes a comfortable stasis of mine.
care and comfort. ten minute ride
of care and comfort.

then I took a pregnancy test.
then I sobbed.
then I saw the psychiatrist.
then I talked for one whole hour
in heaves of cry.
never tell them anything.
but I begin to tell them everything.
he hands me a piece of paper with
a psychiatrist who doesn’t take my insurance.
i walk home alone in short shorts
in the rain, confused.

never tell them anything.

“Tom”

when was the last time you wept?

I take the lighter and press it to
my lips. watch the skin burn away
into a red dot.

it doesn’t get better than this.
I learn to keep secrets again.

“the hospital series”

******

there were a lot of thoughts at once. I may be translating it incorrectly because there was a lot of pausing to take note of environment. to stand still in the tub. to sit still in the tub. was i standing?  twist to the tile and press it and rest my face.feel the wet coolness. I don’t notice any grime in the cracks. was I talking?   look up at my shower head dripping. hear the smoke alarm reminding me I need batteries.  notice the cat wasn’t there. elucidate the room, vivacity. the sun through the window passing through the succulent’s chubby leaves to me, I want to drink them..  my thumb nail waving in a ripple as I try to find my reflection.  the way my fingers can dance on top of water to make ripples. spent hours as a kid doing that. a constant movement to come back to nothing. to realize the want was nothing. my iterations: repetition, pressure, organization, pressure, time, people’s time, attention, pressure, validate the wound, pressure. my head full. my jaw clenched. my fingers around the straw. secret double life;  my functioning a product of survival.

“It’s not what they think though,” when I speak like that I am referring to the idea that I can read motives of people and am not projecting.

I could be projecting. I am afraid too. Ebby sits on the corner now and watches me. her eyes are bright yellow. offer her my cheek to seduce her. we rub faces like that for maybe only three minutes. maybe five. I pull back and gaze at my arm. I go back to her face. gaze at my arm. back to her face and remember how she almost fell once trying to pet me.. I had been sitting closer to the tile with my back against it playing the ripple-fish game with her and she wanted to get closer.  I have a scar going down my rib where she scratched me trying to stop herself from falling into the tub. she did fall. maybe six times now. it doesn’t bother me.”  I have many scars . 

“your skin heals fast but not your bones,”  a psychic once said to me.

“I don’t care.”

but you do or you wouldn’t do it? a voice says.

I am uncomfortable. infinitely.

“I am humbled,” and I laugh because I didn’t expect any of this. nor the pandemic truly.

“I am humbled.”

with motive.

“ don’t show me my death.”

part 1: clairsentience, or The King of Cups