"you can be almost anything
when you're on your fucking knees"
when you're on your fucking knees"
she took all her anger out on her knees: the knees are the worst part of the human anatomy. what do you do when you're on our knees? you can pray, or you can suck a dick. she took offense to this. the knees, she firmly believed, exist solely for submissive acts; the knees exist solely for submission to men; and thus, the knees are an instrument of patriarchy.
she took all her anger out on her knees: i am not submissive, i am not submissive, she looked at them while she told them. and with a meat cleaver in the kitchen, she spread newspaper out on the linoleum floor and cut them off, first the right one, then the left one. bleeding on the kitchen floor in the moments following her act of defiance, she did not feel pain, but rather, she felt the pleasure of free will bubbling up from the chunks of missing flesh, bubbling up through her heart and lungs and in to her mind and in to the sky. looking up at the kitchen ceiling she thought, tomorrow i will make myself a skylight. this kitchen needs a window in the roof. so, she told herself, i will make myself one tomorrow, because this is not my father's house, this is my house. and so, she told herself, after tomorrow i will spend all day and all night looking up at the sky, because it is not The Father's sky, it is my sky. My sky, my sun, my moon, my stars. My house, my body, mine.
she woke up in the morning ready to do anything. In bed with her eyes closed she began to fantasize about her skylight, preparing to make it "by any means necessary" - with bricks, with fireworks, with her fists, whatever. But to her dismay, upon opening her eyes she discovered that on the floor next to her bed lay the bottom half of her legs. Shins and ankles and toes, her legs lay there next to each other like mannequins with nothing to hold on to.
she took all her anger out on her knees: i am not submissive, i am not submissive, she looked at them while she told them. and with a meat cleaver in the kitchen, she spread newspaper out on the linoleum floor and cut them off, first the right one, then the left one. bleeding on the kitchen floor in the moments following her act of defiance, she did not feel pain, but rather, she felt the pleasure of free will bubbling up from the chunks of missing flesh, bubbling up through her heart and lungs and in to her mind and in to the sky. looking up at the kitchen ceiling she thought, tomorrow i will make myself a skylight. this kitchen needs a window in the roof. so, she told herself, i will make myself one tomorrow, because this is not my father's house, this is my house. and so, she told herself, after tomorrow i will spend all day and all night looking up at the sky, because it is not The Father's sky, it is my sky. My sky, my sun, my moon, my stars. My house, my body, mine.
she woke up in the morning ready to do anything. In bed with her eyes closed she began to fantasize about her skylight, preparing to make it "by any means necessary" - with bricks, with fireworks, with her fists, whatever. But to her dismay, upon opening her eyes she discovered that on the floor next to her bed lay the bottom half of her legs. Shins and ankles and toes, her legs lay there next to each other like mannequins with nothing to hold on to.
