Portrait of a Woman’s Hand While Seated Beside Me at the Ballet
Her hand, the Whale bone. Opposable ivory tusk threaded onyx piano keys. Tide-whipped manipulator type-written into yellow dusk. The hand is, in fact, a scar. A deliverance, brushing pure white cats from a red shawl before the ballet entered, the hand was pregnant with the malnourishment of childhood. Beneath its shawl, the hand was breathing. Beneath the sleeping ivory, the knife’s edge shoulder sawed. She took a moment to contemplate the sharpness of her own joints — the splintered white weapon was comprised of unimaginably small parts, conjoined with unimaginably small metal screws. With a slight shrug, the recondite gun cocked, preparing a gentle silver bullet.
Opal dressed herself this evening and reunited her bones. The mirror, framed in golden images of a fruit bounty, reminded the woman of her most favorite spoon. Her most favorite father. A black dress binding her ribcage unaccessible, she reflected in the glass and approached. Purring softly, Opal punched the mirror and reunited her bones! It was a fight! Then, Opal left the house without telling a single secret soul.
The naked father’s ghost’s discarded sheet, idling beside my knee while seated in the velvet dark hall. It asks an indiscernible question. With masted posture, we sat in a suspended balcony during drawn-bow silence and I was sweating a decade-deep swamp.. Fat golden railing contained She and Me, forcing our forearms nearer and nearer while balancing on a thin wooden strip. She told me about her schooling and the pavement chains. I had only spoons for eyes, poorest baby girl sitting in her own warm sex fluids beside a bonded king. I could not not not not come for ______
We drew our knees into our chests, fraught with closeness to our too-thin ribs, we werent’ twins because I already have one and she is too exquisite for replication. I wanted to fuck Opal like a sister, our identical “you-know-whats” kissing in the way that most think lesbians kiss flaccidly with hatred of our respective cockless corpses. I despise anyone who is not a lesbian, though I myself am not one inherently. I am a dyke, which many men find sexually attractive. I look forward to breaking their hearts ((cocks)) by vomiting whenever one reveals feelings for me (which serves no pussy because I frankly want nothing in it)
If you call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.
If you don’t call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.
You’re in trouble, Opal.
You’re in trouble, everyone, because you are going to be aflame you flamed enflamed bastards who are my enemies, I’m not one of you, we are separate, we don’t know each other!!
YOU ARE NOT A LESBIAN AND NEITHER AM I BECAUSE I DONT WANT TO DIE
The hand portrait I wrote: still.
A symphony is warming, playing tide-warped green chords and tuning to one another while I am obsessed with the woman beside me (she is wearing a red shawl, hiding a white hand beneath. I see its breathing pattern and suddenly feel conscious of my of imperfect body) The ballet begins itn 2 minutes. Opal refuses to reach for my hand. I grow angry because I think I know her reason
too ______ to accept her brass affection.
“Die” is what I scream, though I understand her soft motives. I want to give her orgasm.
Two cannons, Opal and Me. An elipsis upon us both, barometered in sweaty shorts, WE’RE LESBIANS, THANKS, AND YOU ARE NOT INVITED TO THE BEACH. Thought between you and you, I’m sure she would not get in the car with me alone.
I’m only lesibian when men need to be sent away. Which is always. I’m always a lesbian, even when I’m not. Don’t fucking light a god damn candle already dumb boy with your thinking cock, I’ll kill.
Opal tomorrow. She’s standing in the corner after an opera bathroom-break alone, sniffing paint, about to let me fuck her anyways and that’s none of your business, dear. Opal winks and wags a finger at me.
I even forgot about her hand, two fingers wrapping around my small-woman thing and about to murder me with a cold wave of finger wrapping around my and about to murder me cold wave of her hand around my woman thing small two fingers, I even forgot my small-woman thing! She won’t hold me later, but with no-cock-love it is worth it.
A red curtain, center-sent, splitting down the middle like a
The Opera is beginning. Our forearm skins have accepted kissing. The golden lights blow onto a few bodies that everyone wishes were their own unoccupied corpses: acting! Opal is there beside me in the still dark, hating me the whole time, yet tilting back in a red velvet folding theatre chair, with knees nearing her breasts as if she knew I knew.