“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.

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.

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