Flesh is just a lot of fiddling. A ton of too much of the fix you, fix me.

I once was a red, stiff, flowering American Apparel dress of tempera painted bones. Snakeskin mini-skin to cover my ass. Saddled Lolita-round-toe. My Repulsion is projected in a pitch black velveted theater.

Once, I was watching through a fish-eye peephole. I dropped at my feet a dark tangled hair mantle.

Nakedness is a rubber eraser,

and now, only snails can fix me—potent snail mucin, shot directly into this hardened gut!

I will crawl around on my belly,

cover the world in slime,

shelter in the spiral-home,

suck long eyes into this cool,

malleable, gelatin-body.

February 28, 2026