“The Girl who Melted”

My tits are melting. My armpits are melting. My eyes are melting. I’m producing more fluids than an orgy and feeling far less sexy.


Do people ever truly feel sexy in an orgy? Do people ever truly feel sexy when they’re melting?

sexy metal melting

hashtags of heat

extra savory salaciousness

twisted twilights

never ending numerical

determinations of comfort

25, 31, 38

75, 82, 96

numbers, grades, degrees, and fahrenheit

Does knowing the melting point help ease the inevitable discomfort? Why are melting and freezing given points? Does the spectrum help humanize and personify our bodies subjugation?

Perhaps. Perhaps they remind us that we are subjects lined up on points and spectrums of creations we do not make but give name to. Are we no better than cretins or parasites? Viruses easily disturbed by numerical extremes. Or, maybe we are more like bacteria rather than a virus. Depending on the spectrum and refusing to fall off the edge.

Sometimes, I wish I could melt when the rain falls and that each drop would pull me down into the earth, down into its core, where the temperatures are unfathomable and it’s vulcan movement blends all the elements together to create new ones.

Sometimes, I wish all my elements had melted and been absorbed in the core, so I could no longer feel what it is to melt as my skin pools pockets of sweat in all my glorious folds and crevices sitting on the underground thinking about if they had dug just a little deeper, we would be in the belly of the Earth pulsing with her rhythms and reminded that it any minute she could swallow us whole, break us down, and make us into something new.

I once met a girl who had melted. She explained it quite matter-of-factly. She had gotten up that morning at her usual time, took the same tramline, and drank the same two latte macchiatos she always did. She was giving a presentation to a major tech company about the importance of employee engagement and receiving feedback when she pointed to the board realizing that there was a dripping stump where her index finger used to be. As the presentation continued, she was forced to slam her elbows on the keyboard to switch slides as her hands had completely dissipated. Yet, she persisted until her tongue had melted in her mouth, and she had accidentally swallowed it like you do with snot when you have a runny nose. She continued until all that was left were her shins and feet rigidly planted between the projector screen and the computer.

Three days later, the attendees submitted their presentation feedback report unanimously agreeing that it was the most informative presentation they had ever had, but the presenter herself was a bit “lackluster.” 

She re-emerged two weeks later, still no head, swimming in the canal, splashing and bubbling about. She paddled through me as I melted into the Spree.

Concerned Citizen of the Universe (The Wicked Podcast). Episode 6: Love-Heart of the Matter (podcast)

Hey Everybody! As a Concerned Citizen of the Universe (The Wicked Podcast), I participated in the Love-Heart of the Matter episode. If you got some time and an open mind, check it out! This is my second ever podcast session, so I truly hope you enjoy the listen.


The word love, for most people, probably conjures an image of two individuals embracing, a family gathered for dinner, or intense passion. Our first clear images of love come from parents or Disney movies, where love is depicted as rosy cheeks or a basketball-sized heart boomeranging through an elastic chest. Other images might come from advertising. As a largely consumerist culture, western society is inundated with products and services promising love, or what feels like love. But the complexity suggested by countless discussions, research, and divorce cases implies a labyrinth fit for the most inquisitive souls. Here, in part 1 of our latest episode, we begin to explore this long-pondered topic.

SOUNDCLOUD: https://soundcloud.com/areyouconcerned/love-part-1


Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/concerned-citizens-of-the-universe/id1483520897?

Never Thought

I never thought I’d live this long

As a queer,

AIDS or God’s wrath.

As a women,

domestic violence,

if not, domestic servitude

As an Iranian-American,

target for a hate crime

As a ‘passing’ Iranian-American,

a 9-5 life and a Mercedes would have done it

Not to mention —

Let’s not mention it.

I just 

Didn’t think I would live this long.

 

I am reminded of choosing to matter

Looking at my reflection 

I see you

scar on your forehead

almond eyes

three little chin hairs

I see you

 

But does my body?

Does my body know me?

I am forced to trust it 

It is the only one I have

But does it know?

Does it?

Does it truly?

Does the body know,

When something is deemed useless?

Does it know,

about toxicity

and the purging of memories?

Does it know,

When I am frightened and quickens its pace?

Does it know,

When to shut up and turn about face?

Does it know,

That love is infinite

but endorphins temporary?

Does it know,

That I should be able to take mushrooms

(at least once!)

And not purge it from my system.

Does it know,

When ‘it’ is lonely?

Does it? Do I?

Do I? Do I know?

What do I know? 

What do I know about my body?

 

This body on temporary loan

This body of autonomous sub-systems 

This body that moves

through space

To experience space

with this body.

Does it know,

that it is mine?

But is it really?

It truly belongs to my mother

She made it for me

Her prototype

And I’m going to have to give this body back

at some point.

I just 

never thought I’d live this long.

Decision Outlets: A Series of Dichotomous Images

Series 1

A flower blooms in a tar pit.

A thirsty fly drowns in paper.

A silk nightgown on rain clouds.

A carbonated flat tire.

 

Series 2

An illuminated copper shoe.

A spilling sapphire receding behind prawns.

A giraffe swimming in a shot glass.

A dichotomous hippopotamus on house arrest.

A long-sleeved homeless tape worm.

 

Series 3

Wrought run sun with veined split ends.

Picture framed water stripes.

Tattoo dust collects postage stamps.

Rewind socks chirping before sifter.

Thylacine doctor runs cling wrap sand.

Curled caverns on perpendicular charcoal.

Words knit bodies on the ends of extinguished outlets.

Shivering in Malfunction

The frustration of living in constant pain to the point of temporary paralysis (oh trust me! Old lefty has crapped out on me quite a few times) while your entire buddy is spasming and cramping as you are desperately on the internet looking for any masseuse or physical therapist that is open or SHIT! even taking appointments in the next 48 hours realizing that there is no one available for you and you have to succumb to creating a Rude Goldberg machine of tennis balls, pool noodle tubes, foam rollers, contorting your body on them in such a way as to stop the spasm, loosen the muscle, and regain feeling back in your numb limbs.

 

But this time
there is no
stopping,
loosening,
or regaining
as I lay there for over an hour
on this bed of therapeutic nails
muscles refusing to contort
shivering in their malfunction
hesitating just above their muscular reset.

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