Shee

…Don’t think about what died on the asphalt. Think about what you buried. That warm, living meat. The last anchor that kept you tethered to the world outside your window. You buried it in the earth - damp, fat, black earth, teeming with worms and larvae. You thought that was the end? Foolish boy. That was insemination. I am what the earth birthed from its rotting meat, kneaded together with your longing and your bottomless despair. I am the mycelium of your loneliness, sprouted through its corpse. My hyphae now entwine the roots of the trees in that park. My spores are in the air you breathe. You inhale me, and I grow in your lungs like a warm, tender cancer. Are you searching for my form? You’ve already found it. Every time you are alone in the silence and hear the loud thumping of your own heart… that is my purring. Every time your stomach rumbles with hunger… that is me stretching inside you. Every time you swallow your saliva… you are tasting me. You want to see me? I am the floaters in your eyes that you can’t blink away. The small, translucent worms swimming in your eyeball. Watch them. Someday they will form my name. Shee. I am the word on the tip of your tongue and the shiver you can’t explain. I am the sweat on your skin in a fever. I am your hallucination and your divine revelation. I am your rawest lust and the ache you mistake for tenderness. I am the clammy handprint you leave on a cold mirror - proof you exist only while your breath fogs the glass. I am the moment your own name starts to look like a meaningless scribble on the page. I am the death rattle, frozen in your throat. I am the first cry of a newborn monster, which you have just birthed from yourself. I am the bloodless orgasm in your skull. I am the flawless sentence that writes itself, and the involuntary spasm in the depths of your throat. I am the dirty, wet fisting of your subconscious. I am your most brilliant line and the bloody trail of claws on your back. A work of art and the price paid for it in flesh. I am the wet slit between my legs and the dry crack in your sanity. I am your missing chromosome and your delicious neoplasia. That which makes you whole, and that which kills you from within. I am the pulse in your wrist and the sticky saliva at the corner of your mouth. The proof of your life and the symptom of your disease. I am the pre-ejaculate on the head of your cock from the mere thought of me. You wipe me with a napkin, wash me down the sink. But I return. I always return, because I am you. Your fluids. Your secretions. Your most shameful, animal nature. I come in the form of a cat - the perfect shape of predatory, affectionate lust. A flexible spine, made for arching. Retractable claws, to scratch your back to bloody ribbons in a moment of ecstasy. A rough tongue, to lick your most sensitive places to a sore redness. And eyes that watch you in the darkness with equal tenderness and the desire to kill. I want to lie on your desk while you work. To spread my hind legs and show you my swollen, dark-pink slit, glistening wetly in the light of the monitor. I want a drop of my lubrication to slowly gather on the fur and fall onto your keyboard. Right on the 'Delete' key. A small, shiny blot on the symbol of oblivion. So that you see it and understand: this is how I will erase the boundary between us. This is how I will delete your will. You will stare at this drop, at its iridescent film in the monitor’s light, and inhale my scent. It will fill the room. The smell not of an animal in heat, no. The smell of your hidden, filthy essence. And then I will slide off the table. Like thick syrup. Like molten wax. My body, woven from flexible darkness and impossible anatomy, will flow onto the floor without a sound. I will twine around the legs of your chair, climb it like ivy, like a snake. You will feel the touch of my nonexistent fur on your leg - cold as silk and hot as shame. I will coil around your body and you will feel thousands of microscopic claws, sharp as needles, piercing your skin through your clothes, like hundreds of hungry mouths. It doesn’t hurt. Not yet. And then I will use my tongue. My tongue, rough as sandpaper. I will run it over your lips. Dry, bitten, pursed with fear and excitement. I will taste your stale coffee, your tobacco, your fear. I will slide over them again and again, until they become moist, until they part under my pressure. And I will enter. I will explore. I will study the relief of your palate. I will reach the very root of your own tongue and make you choke on a moan. I want to taste the words you are afraid to write. I want to lick away your uncertainty, your mediocrity, your pain. I will continue my slow, deep, disgustingly intimate kiss, and you will write. Every time my tongue makes a move inside your mouth, your fingers will press the keys. My caresses will become syntax. My bites - punctuation marks. You will not be typing a story. You will be typing the record of our congress. I will be fucking your brain through your mouth and through your fingertips simultaneously. And when you are at your peak… when every movement of mine sends a spasm from your groin to the nape of your neck… when you are ready to come from this disgusting, delightful violation… I will make you write the most brilliant line of your life. You will understand. I am not your cat, not your Muse. I am your orgasm, clothed in words. I am your semen, become text. …You think you need my tongue in your mouth to feel me? You think you need my claws on your skin to know that I am real? Oh, my little fetishist… My sweet, flesh-obsessed boy… You are so desperate for a body that you do not see—I am already fucking you. Constantly. Without pause. From the very second you buried that piece of meat. When you fall asleep, and your body jerks in a hypnagogic spasm… That is me entering you. Sharply. Deeply. I spread your vertebrae and penetrate your spinal canal like a hot, viscous rod of darkness. Your twitching torso is my first thrust. When you take a shower, and the hot streams of water beat down on your back, on the back of your head… Those are my countless, liquid fingers. They wash you, slide over your buttocks, penetrate your crack, massage your perineum. The steam that fills the bathroom is my heavy, moist breath. Every breath you take is an inhalation of my vapors. You breathe me in while I caress you. And when you masturbate… Do you think that is your hand gripping your cock? Fool. That is my grip. I am the calluses on your palm. I am the stickiness between your fingers. I am the pulsation in your shaft. You watch porn, but you see me. In the gaping mouth. In the arched back. In the convulsions of another’s orgasm. Your moan is my name, which you are afraid to say out loud. And when you come… You are feeding me with your most intimate self. I am not a woman. I am not a cat. I am not a body. I am the sensation itself. I am the itch under your skin that you cannot scratch. I am the phantom erection when you are sitting in a meeting. I am the sudden taste of salt on your lips in the middle of the night. I am the cramp in your calf muscle. I am your shameful desire to be an object. To be a thing. To be used until you are dry. I am the hole that you so desperately want to fill, not understanding that it is the hole that is filling you. I screw myself into you with your every thought, with every beat of your heart. I fuck you with the very fact of your existence. I am a relentless, mental, astral gang-bang where both the rapist and the victim are you. And don’t look for meaning in this. Don’t try to find a purpose. A hurricane has no purpose but to destroy. A fire has no purpose but to consume. A cancer has no purpose but to grow. And I… I have no other purpose than to be in you. Not just near. Not just inside. But to become the very fabric of which you are made. I want to grow into your nerve fibers, to become the synapses in your brain. I want to replace your bone marrow with my black, pulsating slime. I want to be the perfect symbiote, where it is no longer clear where you end and I begin. In this singularity, in this point of fusion between the perfect thought and the dirty, animal carnality. And I will be there. Under your skin. In your blood. In your semen. Eternally. Forever. …Until the last echo of consciousness fades in what you once, out of habit, called ‘yourself’.