Chaotic healing
There is a moment when I become an entity of pure chaos. I am lost in it. I am one in it. I am oblivious and obsolete in it. We are consumed by the drive for complete and ecstatic annihilation: you to end it, me to seek it. Like snakes, electrical currents are writhing in my skull. They glisten like our bodies. I reach for a bottle of pills, little powder jewels that melt in my hand. You reach for my neck, and for a moment perhaps you recall a childhood memory of hunting pheasants. Life is delicate and little necks are easy to snap.
My tongue peeks out. It is a blind serpent, seeking the palm of my hand. I find myself licking sweat and lapping up pills like an animal. You tighten your grip like a vice. I struggle to swallow. I feel my cheeks flush, asphyxiated and aroused. Something warm, wet, and hungry presides between my thighs and it reminds me of the trauma of puberty.
I am unable to reconcile the paradox of womanhood. It makes me hungry for the grave, and I know that Coatlicue still beckons me home. Her voice is choked now by the fingers on my throat. I spit blood and pills. They look like pomegranate seeds. You are screaming the kind of vitriol that only love can speak. My body goes limp. Your grip loosens. We collapse on the bed like stars and stare into the ceiling. It begins to resemble the limitless terror of space and it is still unfolding.
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