i. I want them gored, pared from my flesh as I say goodbye to juvenilia. There is no cause for keeping their letters nor record of their words not even for mockery's sake. I want them gone. I want their stains fingers memories burned to ash and swept away into treacherous water. To have one is to be one, it seems And they never know how to handle it Nor me, the little anomaly who would refuse to suck them off even if that's what's expected, these days. my solemn feminine duty eschewed, and fuck you, too my love. ii. Four clicks A bare movement of the thumb And I am rid of a digital record that for three months I very nearly became clothed in a vicious red a womb with legs a woman under your God like in June's tale. iii. They say that when the red blow flows it is the womb, weeping inconsolable for the lack of blossoming life. Not mine - She is sobbing, yes But with relief. She has collapsed in a waterfall of tears, bathing herself Bleeding herself clean, untouched once more She roils, screams, twists Immerses herself in bonetwist pain And I welcome it like a mother's touch. iv. I killed a man. Quickly, sharply like the fast thrust of a dirk. Silent. My words became frozen blades. Needles, glittering pinprick pain at their tips, their eyes seeing all. I made him scream (but not in the way he made me scream; and not in the way he'd like me to.) Over and over again, I struck Filling my emptiness, an insatiable viperess: swift, soundless, ice-blooded. I deal out this chill in a fair exchange for the fire he doused me with: For shame, burning bright on that first morning of winter Immolating me where I lay in my own bed, whispering to myself that I was safe (this place is inviolate intoccabile but it's going up in flames!) For the scalding heat of the bathwater My trembling fingers clutching at the tub Porcelain white, flawless, faultless -- not like me. Hoping the water will blister my skin soiled as it is lift it from my bones and dissolve to nothingness. For that indecent conflagration, I gift you with this, your own personal wintering. You, who stole Persephone, and much more than that besides. v. o sweet faerie ambassadrix burning in front of my eyes like a firework caught still you never told me this would be so hard.