I wanted to be more,

But I didn't know what that meant.

I wanted to score,

But I had no money to spend.

I fell to the floor,

And discovered it has not been cleaned.

I picked at my sore,

But found it was something I dreamed.

I opened a door,

But saw nothing but earth and sky.

I reached the shore,

But then I felt like a spy.

I bled from every pore,

And then I licked clean every wound.

I paid for a whore,

And she took me around the moon.

I courted the whore,

And she showed me a whole new world.

I married the whore,

And then I became a little girl.

So there's this thing that

I wish I could forget.

I'm not even sure I want to talk about it.

After all

I want to push it out

Of my memory, make it part

Of my distant past, part

Of my long-forgotten mental ephemera.

I'll bet a lot pf people

Have the same

Kind

Of

Thing...

That which they could

Disavow (Eschew) (Banish)

(Excommunicate) (Disavow)

Eschew (Banish) (Excommunicate)

(Disavow) (Eschew) Banish

(Excommunicate) (Disavow) (Eschew)

(Banish)

Excommunicate

Oh? What's that?

I was repeating myself?

Are you sure?

Absolutely sure?

Because I am not.

I know exactly what I am talking about.

Now...

Where was I?

Damn, I'm sore. At least I'm not sticky, broke AND confused, as the Diceman once said. Two out of three ain't bad, as Meatloaf said. At least not as bad as it could have been.

Where the hell am I? I look around in the twilight haze that surrounds me. The smell of hay and manure threatens to induce a sneeze, if not a gag. Nausea overcomes me as I try to orient myself.

A buzzing dominates my ears, but I cannot tell if the origin is within or without my head. I wonder if it even really matters. Immediately I feel I am alone, but I can sense others around me. I am not sure exactly how I do, but a presence -- nay, several presences -- make themselves known nearby.

A cold, wet against my bare arm causes me to recoil in reflex. A bleat follows. whew! Just a lamb. Nothing but a lamb.

Better than a lion.

More bleats answer the initial one. A cacophony of wool. I impress myself with the phrasing. What a metaphor.

My eyes eventually adjust to the dim light. I am not precisely sure where I am, but in the general sense I get it. I am in a barn.

The question is, whose?

Did she follow the directions as I had given them? Was I right in trusting her? Come to think of it, was I right in trusting myself?

A chuckle erupted from my lips, and the lamb nuzzled against me a second time. "Sorry," I said. "I don't have a treat for you."

Still, I scratched it behind the ear. It stood still in appreciation of the attention. I got it. I might do the same, depending on who was doing the scratching. If it was Gina, then definitely.

I attempted to stand up, but vertigo prevented it, at least for now.

Memories came. Sporadically, and in flashes, but there they were, nonetheless.

An image of a truck, being led to it, a blindfold presented to me. However, no panic accompanied the memories.

That's when I remembered a crucial piece of information regarding my abduction.

I was in on it.

In fact, I orchestrated it. With my stepmother.

Why does this sound like it might be the play by play of a porn scenario? Because it kind of IS like one?

My father -- bastard that he is (was?) -- married Gina recently.

Only, I could see the looks that Gina gave me, the lilt in her voice, the casual points of contact, her hand against my arm. Her body against mine as she squeezed by to get to the curtains to adjust them. Her breath clos to my mouth during the embraces of greeting and departing.

I sensed an attraction almost immediately. Well, by that I mean beside the one that I felt FOR her.

Reciprocity.

Such a great word. In sound, yes, but even better in deed or action.

Gina and I had enjoyed a near-instant connection from the first time I met her. However, things were difficult. After all, she was dating my father.

And I wanted to be a good daughter.

At least, I wanted to for all appearances. I could give fuck-all for being a good daughter for real.

After all, my father was a real piece of work. He was all smiles and good cheer whenever the public was involved, or when he met someone new. However, when it came to life at home, guy was an absolute asshole.

Wait. That's not harsh enough.

He was a fucking asshole, and there is no fate in Hell that is too cruel for him to suffer.

You see, death follows him, or is at least in part caused by him.

How I'm not dead yet is still unclear to me. Sincerely.

I have thought about my own death too many times to count. I even tried to effect it a couple times.

Okay. Five times. But who's counting?

He is. Bastard. He even uses it against me. Says it is reason to keep trying to make me right. Says he needs to fix me.

Fucker.

Actually, apropos word.

It makes me hate my older sister Harriet even more.

You see, she got out, despite all the bullshit. She escaped.

And here I am, still enduring the pain, the heartache, the headache, the abuse, the torture.

At least, until now, if Gina did what she was supposed to do.

I'm alive, so that's a good sign (is it?).

And I'm surrounded by barnyard animals. No blindfold any more. (It had to look good and convincing, in case the police got suspicious).

Other barnyard noises made themselves present. A little clucking, the grunt of a pig, the shuffling of hooves. Knowing that the bastard should be getting his due make the smell of intermingled manure all the more enjoyable.

Panic comes over me again. Am I safe?

Then another memory rises to the surface.

My father and I were abducted together. Again, to make sure that no suspicion went in the wrong direction. And Gina with a nasty scar across her forehead.

A sigh of relief.

Gina's image in my mind brought a sense of peace. She always has that effect on me.

I think she saw the way things were going to be earlier in the relationship than most of my father's girlfriends have over the years. It was obviously not apparent to me when I was younger, but now that I am in my final year of college, a lot that used to be obscured is now salient.

For years I thought I was the only one. Harriet clued me in otherwise, about a week before she left, I think for Europe. Maybe Canada.

There were times I still loved Harriet. Then there were the times I hated her. For leaving me with my father. Who I hated even more. Actually, it is inconceivable for me to consider hating anyone more than my father.

I refuse to call him Dad. or Father. There is no way that a) he was anything more than a sperm donor, and b) he deserved a capital letter associated with his name. Unless it was Asshole.

As an aside, I wish there were a word that captured exactly what he is/was, besides Asshole. If you have a suggestion, I am all ears. Cumstain? Blight? Pestilence? Abomination?

To say I hate him does the word hate a gross injustice.

And gross is an apt (though not apt enough) word to describe my father.

Anyway, I digress, and that does Gina a disservice.

Gina is one stand-up gal. (Who the fuck came up with gal, and thought it was an acceptable word?)

And, while I am on the subject of Gina, she is beautiful. Nay -- she is Hot. Sexy. Righteous. Girl-boss. Gas. Fire.

You name it. Whatever positive sobriquet you can assign to her, it will fall short (FAR short) of her actual awesomeness.

It was like she could sense my quandary, my predicament, my...impossible situation. Maybe she was enamored with my father in the beginning, but I think it became clear to Gina what sort of man my father was. (I hope it is was instead of is).

So a plan was put into action.

However, it required that both Gina and I would be above suspicion.

Some time into the relationship that Gina and my father engaged in, it became obvious that my father had not, nor would he ever, change his ways.

In other words, his desires for Gina at times manifested toward me.

There. I said it, after a fashion.

My father sought to dominate all the women in his life. My mother. My sister. Me. Now Gina.

Gina saw this early on, and in so doing became my savior.

Sometimes I wondered if my love for Gina was entirely about her, or if it was more about my rejection of my father, and in consequence my eschewal of all men.

Did it matter? Especially if it was about getting away from my father?

Hugs from Gina were the best. Not just the best I ever had, but the best I could imagine.

They elicited a desire in me I did not know I possessed.

My father convinced me that there was no other man who could love me the way that he did. Really what that did was convince me that I did not want the love of any man if the way he displayed it was indicative of what it meant.

Asshole.

Then there was Gina. And the looks she gave me. Were they maternal? Or were they something more? After all, she was only five years older than me, and beautiful as fuck. Hell, she was sexy as fuck.

I had never felt such desire in my life.

I'd like to think it was not just about escaping my father. But if I had to escape him, and I was born by him, then what about someone who had chosen to be with him? I can only imagine the shame and self-betrayal of one who fell for the charms and ministrations of my father the bastard.

So there I was (am?), with the animals around me, the smells of the barn around me, the twilight turning into dawn, which meant that clarity would ensure. Is it symbolic or literal?

Who gives a shit?

As long as it is a step in the right direction, it does not matter one fucking iota anything else.

So there I was. An abductee. My stepmother with a wound on her head. My sister in another time zone. My father hopefully dead. The lamb oblivious to all of it.

My only hope is this:

Whatever fate my father experienced, I pray that it was filled with as much pain and suffering as possible.

And I hope it continues for all eternity.

Cold.

I'm Cold.

Shiver and shake, pornography -- Harold AND Joe

(How Beautiful You Are).

Three imaginary boys, sinking,

Screw in-between days.

Wendy time -- a foolish arrangement --

(Us AND them)

So what?

Let's go to bed, birdmad girl,

Piggy in the mirror.

If only tonight we could sleep,

Breathe, a pink dream,

The perfect girl,

One more time, like

Cockatoos.

To wish

Impossible things from

The edge

Of the deep green sea,

In your house

At night.

Secrets?

So what.

It's not you.

I drag the scalpel across the blister at the base of my right thumb. Fumbling, due to right-handedness, the line is not as straight as I'd hoped it'd be. Blood trickles out, followed by a greenish ooze. Funny how a splinter can cause such a ruckus in the flesh. Below the top layer of blister, I can see the tail end of the sliver that had embedded itself there. I grab tweezers and pinch painfully but delicately. Slowly I pull, but am suddenly hindered in my attempt to extricate. What the hell? Something inside my hand pulls it farther in!

Enter the draggin'.

By that I mean the body I have

Trailing behind me, attached by the bit

In its mouth and the rein in my hand.

I make sure to do this so they don't make a sound.

Oh? You didn't know this wasn't my

First time?

Sorry, I forget that my anonymity precedes me.

It is a double-edged sword,

Pardon the cliche.

I hate using one,

Since I eschew becoming one,

But I don't have time

To think up a new phrase.

I have a body to bury.

Well, once it's dead, anyway.

Of course, I need to defile it first,

Though I'm not sure how

I should do that this time.

After all, if there is one thing

I learned from the movie Henry,

It's this:

Never kill the same way twice.

I took this to a whole new level

(Never a whole nother level, since

that's not even a fucking word)

With my killings.

And that's this:

Sometimes I defile them, and I like to let

You just use your imagination,

Since you're pretty twisted anyway,

Even if you won't admit it.

Sometimes I make them defile themselves,

And again, use your imagination.

But let me tell you, people rapt with

Desperation get pretty inventive, and sometimes

They impress even me.

Sometimes I make a loved one defile them,

And this is when I truly get to learn

The true depth and meaning of depravity.

She lied, but

Only once per day.

Never more, never less.

Obviously, the hard part

Was figuring out when it would be.

Would it be the

First thing she said?

The last thing?

Somewhere in between?

Statistically if she said ten things

In a day, there was a ninety per cent

Chance any given item was the truth.

It was nice on those occasions

When I could verify what she had just told me,

For at least I knew that was the truth.

However, did she say it true because

She had already lied and she had to,

Or was she saving her lie for later

And she wanted to?

And if she ever told me which one it was,

Could I believe her?