A fortune teller at Venice Beach
wearing green eyeliner, holding bits of sand, took note of my
ever-present suitcase & warned me that because my Venus is
in Scorpio I will always be an obsessive temptress doomed to misery.
I can lie to myself and say that these men mean nothing, but
that’s what therapy is for. And I am that woman who has
seen Death’s made up face looking back in the mirror, honey.
And I am the woman who amended the memoirs with a bibliography
& sewed up my skin with thin black thread after giving pieces
of myself away. I still have the keloid scars to prove my humanity,
as I compile lists of who was and wasn’t & who my mother
should have warned me about.
It’s time to murder the good girl with knives from a street
vendor, in a Hollywood sacrifice. No one wants me to be witty
or morbid, but pure hearts are eaten unabashed at the local diner
along with strawberry milkshakes & I don’t want the
delicate parts to sting. My relentless traits are at odds with
finance & meaningless sex but Retrograde is moving into my
facial tension & contemplation in the ruins of my eyelids.
The sharks are chomping my good girl at the throat & I don’t
want her to suffer a prolonged death.