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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
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I have been sick, horribly sick since I was born.
My flesh was weak and disappointing, I would not be of use.
In the same instance, love was stripped from that very flesh.
I can only imagine the looks of disdain in the eyes of my blood as my blood failed my body, and therefore my blood.
I'm told that at three months, my mother attempted to press down on the soft spot that thrummed a silent percussion of her failure through my frail, mottled, suckling corpse.
I was not worth the milk.
As I grew, the hospital grew with me.
My third arm was a tube that lived inside my wrist, begging me to overcome.
But I was born a mistake, and the machine had misplaced its empathy.
Milk to vomit; saline to milk; milk to vomit.
When I had, against odds and wishes, turned the age that my milk turned to chocolate, the doctor misplaced his empathy as well.
Or so I had thought.
He spoke of a land, a wretched land.
The only land in which I was beautiful.
When the chocolate began to pair with wine, a joke of a decision made only to mock my own blood by pretending poison was of better quality and stature than what my body could produce, the kind doctor took me to that land.
He took me in books, handwritten, copied with love.
A love that spewed, and bled, and suckled from rotting teats.
My progenitors had long since left me to rot in that room that made my coffin, the building I was buried in, stillborn.
As so, they will never find out the heights to which I have soared.
The beauty I was born into, the love that has been pouring into me since I was born with that third arm, desperately trying to feed me life.
The Nälkä love me.
They have shown me that I was not born wrong, I was born beautiful.
Born so pathetically, horribly, all-consumingly, beautifully fucking sick.
Now, when my flesh scabs, they preen me like gentle doves, picking away at my sores.
When my elbows drip streams of sopping pus, it is wine in the hands of sommeliers.
When I vomit, we bathe, and dance, and slip and fall all together, in pools of my milky yellow ichor.
When I fuck, and I sweat feverishly, and I offer my disgusting body to be carved and consumed, I am not useless meat.
No.
I am prime rib, I am milk for the suckling.
I am a delectable treat to make love to, and squeeze the putrid fillings out of, and LOVE.
There is love all around me.
I love all that is my forgotten cherished, rejected accepted, horribly wrong beautiful life.