Failure Old Sketchbook Diaries
Sometimes I think you'd like to live me, make a slight incision between my collarbone and my breast, crawl inside, one-fourth your size. You would quietly wander through the chambers of my heart, gazing on cardiac tissue like it's a gallery of Monets, thinking what bloody flowers a body contains. You would be thrust into my pulmonary artery, cascades of iron and rust falling around you, twisting you around like a felled surfer caught in a wave six feet from the jetty. Me, oblivious, I would continue this involuntary action of shoving you
A sad and lonely fallopian soldiersnake would slink past you, narrowly dodging a meteor shower of empty eggs, tiny smiling faces painted in watercolor yellow on their soft shells, chased by a very confused band of rowdy sperm, two of which would gaily become tangled by their tails and cheerfully squabble until they freed themselves. Thanks to the varied breeding of my twelve cultured diseases, you would find foreign cavities and organs lunging at high speeds throughout the confused tumor of my body. And I, hating you and your rude and unintentional interruption of common bodily procedure, would expel you by way of dropping a single thirsty leech to the nape of my neck where you would soon arrive, made dizzy by the leech's numbing saliva, and be bled out into another body. through arteries, yanking you into heavy limbs. Finally you would decide that you'd floated into another strange organ, and you would find it a nice place to live, work, raise a family. You, the tourist, would take advantage of the scenery, studying my unique anatomy, comparing it to a dusty old biologytext sketch of the average strange female body. You would come across a lost ovary, wedged in between two anklebones, hard and imagining itself to be another shard of white sifted in with the rest. You would regain consciousness and wonder at your new surroundings. You would erect a small picketfence around the leech and then you would fall in love with me. And you, not knowing exactly what to think of this, would draw vulgar and exact representations into the margins of your biotext.
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