nighttime emissions and sublimated humiliation fantasies

i had a sickening dream, after i woke but before i rose. on dusty recliner with wooden arms and itchy hounds-tooth cushions, a frog slid tadpoles straight from a gash running from throat to tail. it had not been cut, it had only opened to birth them. it had always been there. on the chair a snake wriggled around with the frog. it wanted to eat them all. the frog fought and the blind babies squirmed away, but the snake ate them anyway. it was a slimy sight. i had descended from a tower, perched on a church's rust-streaked green dome, where i clutched to the surface on sticky octopus suckers with street-kids, where i had been safe. but, of course, the world ordains the things you must witness.

not to diminish the dreams i have had of you lately. no. you no longer chase me in soothing loops round escher staircases, our ability to move expanded to bounding many-storied leaps, the cartilage in our knees extra-strengthened pillows. now. oh now. you crack the bones in my wrists between your thumb and forefinger and i turn your skin to ribbons with a bowie knife. i cover you in hair, force it to grow everywhere, including the soles of your feet. you un-piece me by a pond full of sucking mud and throw my bits in to be watched over by the trees. in front of your elementary school, i walk behind you invisible, whispering the truths of your grown up self into your ear as you move to the double doors and you are so ashamed. you are hot-faced but you can't cry in social studies and language arts.

my daydreams are pure avoidance. "i am living my best life." audiences with princelings and me in a plexiglass box, lit under with LEDs, dancing to mint royale on repeat for eighteen hours, probably high, probably wearing knee socks, probably wearing a t-shirt dress with some lazy illuminati-based design (triangles no doubt, even though i've always felt better about squares), probably losing momentum, until i'm too exhausted to take home anyone who might have chanced a look. too tired to feel the hand on my face until after it's left a bright red palm print there.

kissed by a rose on a fascist's boot

uh huh huh hunnnh caffeine you devil
"does your mommy know you're a pansexual satanist on the internet?"

it's not very "don't fucking tell me what to do"
to ask for your hand to ease me to the floor by the shoulder
right?

give me your diminutives
oh you'll stand up to me, boy?
will you?
my knees'll buckle before you even begin to raise the gun
call me, boy
call me "boy"

i read "number the stars"
before i ever saw a man stuff his fist in a woman's mouth
i forced my dolls on each other
before any one ever asked, "chocolate or vanilla?"
but i definitely, definitely learned the phrase
"i'll be good for you, i'll be so good for you"
after all that

it's not sick if you imagine that someone just happens to know what's better for you, right?

hunnnnh
god bless your ragged fingernails
praise be to st. slyvia plath and daddy bastards
send prayers for the me that is when i can't get turned on

i'll ask first, i'll always ask first
promise daddy
promise, daddy