The Last Fornication

What is insanity? Repeating the same actions and the provocations of a man or woman- who know that it all leads to the same consequences? Women know insanity in the vein of menarche. Every month, we see what is to come. What flows out of our bodies? What emotions are we to face when our own blood labels our actions? This, us, the feminine monster? Our feminine monster causes unbalance in our relationships with our family members or lovers. Yet, we are still not prepared for it- it is like we have not yet become familiar with the familiar. The menstrual cycle comes and goes, as do friends, as do family members, and as do our lovers- but fuck that, this prose is not about a woman’s period.

Let me ask you something though, what do you call a cheater who exhibits all the symptoms of damaged sickness? It islike sour milk spilled on the concrete ground, already stale, under the heat of a middle-eastern sun. Underneath the bridge, if that’s where it is, the smell suggests homicide at most. Such can be said about a ripening plum. It is ready to be desolated by wild animals who have been left in the wild for too long. How do they live? Indeed not like the homicidal, stale, rotten- milk.

The cycle of lies, no, the needle of lies, a minor distraction from the bird who wants a cracker. A lot is still left unsaid between us, yet the urge still lurks like a serial killer from an Italian Giallo horror film. She kills me, and I do the same to her- both of us wear those black gloves. And what about her lover? And what about her crime? Perhaps she is the blood on the black lace of my ex.

The girl I speak of usually has rare feathers ripped from her body as our shoulders try to maintain a rhythm of denial and nightmares- an abortive love. It was a love that was aborted by her own blood, her own needle shared, running through someone else’s veins. Never the less it could be that perhaps have been a slight error of judgment on my part- hormones over forever, ever. Maybe this new one, who is not so unique anymore, can paint you while I find a beauty queen to take your place. You seem content enough, but we might soon be exposed to a cruel cosmic joke.

Without conscious intention (or black lace), I notice she has not been touched lately, or perhaps it is only my touch that allows me to see the tiny dark hairs on her arms rise. I am sure she is torn between her actual lover and me. I forget her face as she lies beneath me; although as she lays, a solid, pale corpse, so white, but with black hair that can dim the lights of the room- a narcissistic, emotional crippled image of the girl who was once a true love of mine. She moans, knowing that I know she knows a dirty word.

If vanity exists, then I am about to enter through its spider-web-like trap. A Nun’s vow or the discretion of a bleeding Nun’s vow does not hold much authority in this bed. If madness indeed exists, then I, too, am sickeningly damaged in this “free” head of mine. Yet, she is about to agree to divulge my sickening fantasies.

Do we inject into each-others lethal as we grind and hate? The dejection of unnatural symphonies absolves into an explosive force- Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana.’ Then, silence. The flares dissolve into a lake of lava, and the shakes of remorse begin for the both of us.

This image is tragic indeed, two women with so many disfigured habits. Her lover might be that of an insect’s sly journey through a body’s hard shell, but my breathing cannot excuse my own hateful crime- letting you go before she got to you. Mustering the same energy as the calm before the storm, we celebrating nothing. I know she is about to blow out the candles of our expiration date, even if I dared to come knocking and dying one last time.

Yet, how many times, though?

As the melody of the cruel mandolin echoes in the street outside of your open window, the wind starts to blow open your curtains like some sort of Greek tragedy. I shiver at the thought of an Oedipal-like scenario, but the air is warm as she now lays beneath me. She plunges in with all her vigor, her final attempt at crucifying the Nightingale before she disappears for the last time. I become a willing accessory to this crime- she will always plead the fifth.

I am not here for a b-exploitive insect bite- does this bite represent a William Blake poem? Who is the lamb? Who is the Tyger?

This was either with or without you, a consummation of something that was already nearing its final climax. As I stare at the ceiling, I think, can the plateau be clean after this, and if so, would either of us remain clean?

It would not solve anything as we wipe away these memories, our sins- our bodies? As she scrapes any trace of my flesh from underneath her fingernails, I observe her face, her veil- the false God she always seems to remember with me- loudly. She places a stone on my chest, reminding me that black is not the color of my true love’s hair. Nothing has changed; she is still for the girl who paints her. I get dressed in the dark, colder than before, and you? You seem to have lost your way again. She begins to act like a martyr now, and as for me? I leave again to find some sunflowers north, maybe lilies. It does not matter where. I am content with sitting with Lillies in either the light of the day or the darkness of the cave- my allegory does not have an expiration date.

I know our bodies ache, and she reminds herself of what she has done; the Virgo and the Pisces; the Pisces and the Aquarius, mad, beautiful, and dangerous. A never-ending cycle of grapes turning sour is the nonchalant alcohol for nonchalant fools for one, the virgin who still acts like one and the other, the sex addict, who performs with the ferocity and humility of a Nun.

I still wonder, though, if she still does not know that I was too young to cheat?

Seven Autumns is simply an experimental fictional writer, who occasionally gets lost in the woods with a notepad and a pen. Instagram: @sevenautumns or Twitter: @AutumnsSeven