Funny how rebirth and destruction are one form of an opinionated double entendre, greater metaphor for the abundances of life provided to you by whatever you’re believing in now whether it be Him, or He Almighty, Allah, Them, the fairytales passed down by the continuous lineage of femininity in your family which have shaped you into the powerful Goddess that you now are.

The slant rain falling in slant rhymes from the sky are the tears shed by the Wolf who feels the rejection of Little Miss and weeps and woes within the utmost secluded corner of his castle (his hegemonic masculinity). Misogyny... I tell you.

They’re the tears I shed 24 years ago (and that’s an extended metaphor as 24 is a saaaaad, sad number according to Wiki) when I realized without the guiding hand of teachers from my Junior High I’d end up driving a GODDAMN cab or working in a GODDAMN McDonalds. Both off the bucket list now!!!

My teacher Miss Jen Yves told me how the words we write are indicative of how we will portray ourselves, sort of like the words we say and write will be our dresses and shirts and clothing. When we go out into the “real world,” that sleet rain, the pages of our words will bind to us and inevitably become our skin. The sun will weather it, turning it brown and leathery, dotting them with constellations of freckles in patterns of bears, and wolves, and dancing sequences, oh my. Our freckled leather jacket of skin which holds in our bones, blood and baggage will share our secrets in the form of our freckles which dot my slightly puffy cheeks like freshly strewn tea leaves in the bottom of my mug—it makes me wonder if my future could be as easily ascertainable between the two. An oracle named Marlena came to me in my dreams last night. She said, “you’re not a writer unless you’ve considered suicide at least seven times.” Legacy. Goddess. Non-confrontational being whom I should like to be like some day and make proud hence I should become a writer.

I never made you, my dad, proud, that’s why you left barely after I had begun to spew out words words words and began to take my steps towards anything opposite of success. We were like, the dumbasses who compare their love story to Romeo and Juliet but we were comparing our family situation to Hamlet. A massivemassivemassive shit show. I sometimes dreamed about you coming home to me and mom, mostly as when we dogwalked, the rhythm of her feet refined to the most unmelodic and repetitive repeating of foot after foot, she’d tell me “I’m not listening, look at how much Oliver has grown in the past 2 months” while she listened explicitly to every word to fall from my mouth about the what the why and the how I knew about you, the monosyllabic slurring watercolour of bittersweet orchestral sentences as I described the very epitome of you. She was your sweet tooth and you were her insatiable, gigantuous, crazy crazed and continuous craving for the finest cotton candy so thin it tickles your chin like scruff, caresses your taste buds like saliva with the juxtaposition of a harmonious melody, ebbing and flowing from the crevice of your upper right cheek to the hollow of your lips and gums. But cavities. Those goddamn cavities that stick around like the sex-workers down the hall dealing with Mrs. Davison who punches her fists into pillows every night and screams out bloody murder redder than your face when you drank too much brandy and it showed on your belt size.

I remember she wanted to know which dress to wear that would make her look the slimmest and which one would make you ask her to twirl around like a ballerina so you could stare at her in her dress a little longer; i remember the she-wolf choosing her dresses based on which ones she’d know you’d want to undress her from the quickest.

Misogyny; defined by a dress.

I don’t miss you. I miss my oracle and my teacher, the dreams which don’t resemble reality—somehow I know that being close to them does not require proximity. It requires light and warmth and generosity and memory, and the explicit understanding of slant rhyme and the male gaze and let me just tell you this one thing

“There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of