Don’t be scared. Breathe baby. You’ve never known anything like me, and you never will again. I will do as I am. I will belong to each breath. I will make them deep. I will reach into the depths of my lungs. I will pull out a memory. It will be a story I haven’t written yet. I will write you. I will see it manifest. Before my naked body you will come to be. My eyes do not fool me when I hold them shut fiercely. I will not be deceived by my own perception of the dream you’ve laid before me. I will perceive desire instead. I will see an entirely different realty. I will paint it with mantras on my bedroom ceiling in the dark. I will sing my truth. It will be a lie to you. You will spit at my childish disregard for sentimentality. Your emotional stability is of no concern to me. I am concerned with my spiritual existence only. My precious flesh: my home. The blood running within feeds my desire to seek. The material is worthless. You promised possession would cure the ache in my guts. I was a baby then. My boney boyish body carved like a woman sank into your teeth. You bit gently. You were afraid to hurt yourself trying. You felt your insecurity dripping onto my naked skin. I soaked you in without needing an explanation. I’ve known since the day I was born, the whole world is hurting. You are no exception. Your pain did not slow me down. I was breathing faster then you’d anticipated. You didn’t know if I was crying out in agony or ecstasy. At some point it became the same thing. You abandoned everything you loved most. Turns out, you lied straight through your crooked teeth, gazing timidly, you chose your fate; I never needed a single thing of the 3D world. I was searching for my imagination. It had been stolen from my tiny hands when I was barely old enough to stand. I was taught to reach outside of myself for contentment. I was lied to. So I became a liar, begging on all fours, until I remembered. I don’t want you. I don’t want this nasty story of the best man and his survival techniques. I don’t want your useless tools. Once upon a time you used your imagination too. It was there that you created. What you are building now rests on the backs of slaves and an illusionary hierarchy of human existence. Once upon a time you were my equal. Now I am the goddess of light and prince of peace and you are vanishing off the face of earth. I commend her for wiping herself clean. Every one I see is vile. Every child is murdered upon entry. What a silly way to manifest reality, when the power of the universe is at your disposal. You create an earth that swallows you whole. You create seven billion lives wasted. You create nothing of sustenance. You’ve been abandoned by your soul. I dance at dawn. I sing for their return. They watch me in jealous admiration. They follow my physical form. But they cannot hold my hand. You cannot taste my skin. For your body has already buried itself. Seemingly alive in accordance with popular opinion, under a sky full of drones, the machines descend mercilessly, they crush the bodies below; I don’t mourn for what was never living. I weep for the trees. I witness an earth deprived of oxygen. What’s the matter baby, can’t you breathe? Who has taken your breath away? Did you bother to account for anything? Who has rewritten your entire story and taken your existence away? You stood there, stone faced; disbelief is crippling. If you don’t believe me, just ask your love. Don’t you remember? Who is she? The little girl is only three, five, seven; still mortified, there was nothing honest before her. There was nothing for love to define. There was a sickly self-obsessed mother. There was a father who left without saying goodbye; there was nothing to absorb the love you were made of, the shock was stunning. Your mouth was left open. You wanted to scream bloody murder. You knew deep down that death was everywhere. But your throat was trapped. Fear was climbing up from your gut. Black tar, two fingers down your own throat. You wanted it out of you. You wanted your voice. But you were out of time. When the mother walked in, you swallowed and smiled and assured yourself, everything was all right. Every thing is wrong. Your fingers gave up possession of my throat. I dance alone. The world is dying. It has always been this way. All the kids are starving. All the kids are enslaved. Everything left alive has gone in hiding. As we desperately search the each for each other, we create. We bring forth all of our art in the name of the love we’ve imagined. We perform to the soundtrack of the ending we’ve chosen to manifest. No soul wants this story persist. No body, living or dead, wants to possess anything but the love that lives within. It’s a trick, it’s a trap; it’s a prison. Imagine a different thing. Imagine a butterfly landing on my chest while I mourn the setting sun, whispering your name. Whimpering. Remembering the beginning. Calling forth the end.