SEA-WITCH TRANS MEMOIR BONE DEATH NEVER TRIES
“There must be ways to find comfort in the question mark.”
-Jordaan Mason, “Why Fit?”
When I see a whale I call it girl. I look at it in its eye as big as my fist & call it girl like I have nothing left in me. Everything I found when I left Sea-Witch was colored like whale, covered in whale. I looked upon the landscape & called it girl, with its girl-colored mountains, its whale-colored dirt. When I look at myself I can’t see what I look like. I try to remember if I ever saw what I looked like when I looked at myself & I think that I must have, at one point, known what I looked like, but I don’t remember clearly. It shifts with time, which is supremely fake. That’s what I learned today, I think to myself. I learned that time is supremely fake. I no longer remember how many times I have left Sea-Witch. I feel like I am always leaving Sea-Witch. I do not remember the last time I returned but I must always be returning because I am always leaving her. It hurts every time & every time she tries to make it not hurt, but it hurts anyway. I can’t imagine what it might feel like if she let it fully hurt. Maybe it would hurt exactly the same, maybe it would hurt more. I can’t tell. I know there is a threshold to hurting. But I know Sea-Witch always tries. This time when I leave Sea-Witch I look at her & I call her girl. I look at the pain I’m having & I call it girl. I try to look at myself, I try to call myself girl but the word gets stuck in my throat. I try to massage the word out of my throat but I find there only thick arteries beneath the soft skin. I find there only flesh & buried bone beneath muscle & organ. I take a break from trying to call myself girl. I look at the ground & call it girl.
Today I have the sun in me, & see it in the sky & I say hello & call it girl. The warm breeze feels gentle on my skin & I feel my feet walking me across the ground. I am on a beach somewhere & the view I see around me cuts me to pieces emotionally. My feet walk me across the beach emotionally. I look at the beach emotionally. I call it girl emotionally. I sit down emotionally. The sea is full of water & water is always girl, always has been girl so I get in the water, I get in the sea & bathe myself fully in girl. This is what today feels like & maybe, just maybe if I stay here I could feel this way tomorrow as well. Maybe I could bathe myself clean each day, marinate in sea, in girl & feel this way each day. Maybe I could look at the beach & call it home. Maybe it could teach me the meaning of girl, teach me the meaning of home. There is a dog on the beach & I call to it. Here girl. Good girl. C’mere girl. I notice the dog’s vagina & stop calling it girl, because it no longer feels subversive. That’s silly. I call it girl again as it nuzzles my face. The dog tells me where I am, emotionally. The dog tells me emotionally where I am. The dog tells me emotionally where I am emotionally. I dig a hole in the sand & the dog digs with me. It is so emotional. The sky rains on me because I am a girl. I am wet I am cold & I call myself girl-with-the-sun-inside-her. I am shivering. I call myself pretty. I fit perfectly into the hole. How can I sleep in the rain emotionally?
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In honor to those who came before her, Dead-Jellyfish-Witch frequently partook of that holiest of sacraments that derived from the loins of the monster or unmonster with whom or whoms she was taking turns. When alone she would touch herself, staring hard at her own faith, imagining she was touching the firm faith of another. In the end she always ended up googling explosions. Anything drippy & spurting was the fire she needed to push through the rain of ‘Who Am I’s toward cumming.
Dead-Jellyfish-Witch kept Grindr for the dick pics, though she never could feel at home in that environment, fraught as it was with men and Men. The one time she met up with someone she couldn’t stomach the smell of him burning in her nostrils, reminding her of the unwelcome too-closenesses of her childhood. “Just fuck me already,” she said, trying to focus on the image of explosion. As it turned out, he couldn’t get it up & they parted ways friendly & disappointed on both sides.
Dead-Jellyfish-Witch separated herself from much of what was around her. She thought.
Dead-Jellyfish-Witch lived in an apartment in a city. She spent her time there walking up stairs & stretching her back. In the mornings she would travel down to the lake beach, where she found bones. She didn’t start out going to look for bones, but upon finding the first few, she decided to keep an eye out for more. There were a lot more. She would bring them home and put them in the trunk she used as a coffee table. Soon the trunk filled up & she found other places for them. She began to make little bone displays, a bone shrine, a bone wall-hanging. She placed flowers among the bones to keep them from looking creepy. When she had others over, which was rarely, she would tell them “These are my bones! I have pulled them from my own body.” Most guests would laugh, & she would let them, but a few would ask further questions. These were the ones she liked the best.
Dead-Jellyfish-Witch had a hard time with life. But her life was long, despite some of her early efforts to make it not long. She did many things, and was the recipient of a great deal of cum, which made her very happy. When all was said & done, things turned out pretty okay.
Moss Hope Angel is a polynymous artist, writer, book-witch & amateur tattooist living in Olympia, Washington. Her most recent book, Sea-Witch v.3: Mare Piss Superkill, will be out on June 27th from 2fast2house press. http://undying.club