The blinding dispersion of your grace as you are destroyed and remade in the space between atoms.
Self-transformation is vital.
Submit to it. Become the basin of pain that echoes the shifting of your bones, and the wet percussion of your own blood.
Emerge from the steam of your old meat, glittering and unconquerable.
One of my greatest domestic desires is to have a comfortable window seat that I can pad over to, and look out onto a beautiful vista of concreted glass verticality, crowned with verdant, 32nd-floor rooftop gardens.
I’d drink my neuro-adblock enriched smoothie (honey dew melon today), and give a few capsules of high-amp tetranip to the stray cat that mews outside of my balcony door when its mechanical clock hits 0915 every morning.
and a glimpse of that wet void bashes me into self-destruction on a molecular level.
With her sweat on my lips, my mouth absorbs the blueprint of her body’s composition: carbon, calcium, hydrogen, phosphorous— I carve out her ripest crevices with scientific theorems and teeth; I transmute her pleasure with biological alchemy and heat.
Down to the atoms, I split her apart.
Her divinity burns my eyes into a liquid boil, but the mortal wound that runs down this face is aeons beneath the gravity of my need. All I want is the drink of her chalice and the blistering tactility of our manifested bodies as we coalesce and self-immolate—
She’ll choke wetly upon my tars of ruination and I’ll eat away her wings and we’ll consummate the very aberrance of our union upon the scriptures of your species and the damnation of our masters—
Watching self-spec’d boys apply makeup on one of my monitors. Such perfect brush strokes; calculated nodes pulling colour onto facial landscapes against a soundtrack of hushed voices and mechanical voyeurism. Angled lines connect with exquisite precision, and the resulting visual coaxes me into a strange heat.
and my envy is the emotional equivalent of swallowing glass.
Are my bones not fucking good enough??
and tasted god.
She was the transcendence of parasite life—more. Beyond the genetic limitations of my species, she was a star-devouring symbiote with a voice like a chasm; deep with the absolution of gravity and mind-destroying subsonics.
I can’t remember when she infected me, but it was goodgoodgod—
She burrowed inside, and had the sweetest monopoly over my organs and ate me
outfrom the inside out
—and left my chest gaping with open revelation after she left.
Haunted by the vision of her three beautiful eyes hovering above my stasis chamber. The dreams are more persistent when the massive shadows of orbital debris eclipse my ship, and my waking thoughts are pitched into endless cycles of galactic twilight.
During my stillest moments, when I’m far away from the daily tumult of dead-system raiders and meteor fields, my thoughts drift to you and in a swell of self-damnation, all I remember is how beautiful you are to me and your perseverance under the corrosion of illness and how I’ve failed you and how I dream about you in hypersleep and how the trajectory of your existence is so frustratingly far from mine. I think about the vulnerable axis of coordinates that marked our meeting on that M-Class planet and the first time you really began to share yourself with me, and I know that we could never return to that exact temporal rift because space is an incomprehensibly fickle and unforgiving vacuum, but I miss you and I hope you can one day find me worthy of you.
I want to write but my mind is an empty basin.
Even static holds encrypted messages.
where intersexed porn stars copulated with Plutonian ice slugs to a soundtrack of 21st century aggrotech classicals. I was an angry, rotten girl. That must’ve been how she’d caught me.
Now she’ll slip in through the exposed electrical wiring in the ceiling of my Section X-8 hovel, and descend upon me in a self-reconfiguring cloud of alien nanotechnology and arousal.
Sometimes it’ll hurt, especially when she’d gnaw lipstick-coloured flesh wounds into my collarbones, and force my piteously human body into submission by geometry: my limbs an assembly of perpendicular angles and erogenous discomfort.
Other times, she wouldn’t hide coyly behind her domination.
We’d take off our clothes, and I’d get to count all of her eyes. The sinuous landscape of her body’d be bejeweled with them; blinking and glittering like irradiated stardust; laden on the curves and crevices of her that I’ve tasted, and their numbers were never the same.
She always laughed at me because I only had two.
And my weight will converge upon the pinnacle of your biology and you’ll die, hundreds of millions of times over, and over.
I’ve also learned to stare right into the eyes of people who gawk at me and watch their gaze shy away; it’s an exceptional display of social dominance.