giana

The cartoon hearts are hospitalized. She pulls her parachute & fractures gently into darkness. The girl I loved is a graveyard.

Nobody laughed when I got out the gun. Nobody paid me any mind. Even then, my baby was running out of me like yolk. It


puddled, a prostituted mess of hemorrhage. I cradled the viscous child in my hands to the clinic & dumped


it in the trash: lifeless at last.


Cops don’t look at me. I am a cockroach made for squishing. Let time change her face; make her mine. Without God,


angels are criminals of the medical kind. Glory holes for eyes, lazy idolatry featuring a parasite at your party:


two pixel-slick girls ease into blackout.


Burnt breakfast, black thread of child death, I shot heroin to locate the part of me that didn’t want to kill.


As it turns out, heartmeat cannot be auctioned off & bought by suits. The meat is whole, yes, & full of maggots.


Chronically a killer. I leave the filthy fucks & the filth follows me out, powdering my teeth pink.


I walk into a room full of men — I think, How many rape women, hate women, would love to make an example outta me—


No. Was made to be ruined, to be bored & bent by boys in a blue firefly glass. Girl love is dark with god.


Girl love eats my ovaries dry & wide, a tongue mutilated with want. We were


glamorous, then: naked, early morning’s plastic, church breath left at the edge of my cruel & nasty fits,


the ones where I debased my body to become hollow & anger, tender opiate, immolated us both in her


forsythia-caked crypt. Desiccated,-


smoking cowboy killers, though not a killer yet (like I was), you locked me in your lash while I shot up in


the kitchen, away from you. We were victims of self- repulsion. The lengths we went to


to be dead — the choices you left me with, when you thought a kiss was a contract.


What we are now is foul: paralyzed by pairs of pantyhose, takeout cartons


stacked, head to head, like when she haloed over my disgust- ing body, breasts smashed, creeps & their wildflowers.


Our love was left to rot. Now I am a maladaptive morgue, strange holes in the ceiling for centipedes to settle down.


The last night you dreamt of me was in May. It rained as it does in Paris — fickle, cubed ices. Finally,


buried, our sex swathed with crystal mdma & endless, endless questions — face-fucking could not redeem me.


Neglect, cold milk in your cords, shaped my suicide: no longer a hand but a mouth. Easier to understand. You deserve


a man — after all, loving me will not land you in heaven. & I so bad, so gutting, purged of fat — having had none of the sad, holy warts to scream & stomp about — need you there,


even if I’m still shooting heroin in a cool, cream womb. Even if I become some late-night news criminal, a violet corpse to coat


your television. Even if all I’ve ever been (not dogheart,


not parasitic possession, not a angel, no, that you ever prayed would visit) If all I’ve ever been to you


is a carcass with which to cut your love,


brick some dark sugar that I mainline & make a mother of,


I need you to be in heaven. Even if I’m not there to see you off.


Especially then.

—  “Girl Love,” Giana Angelillo

1.

Look, I did what I was told to do. Slayed the dragon, stabbed it in the eyes, watched it burn itself to ash & bone. There were no applauding villages, no grateful kings, no humble gods. I came home with a dead thing wrapped around my waist & all you asked was whether I was planning on keeping it. Hands on your hips, the cat curling himself around your ankle. Said, we don’t need more responsibility. We don’t need another body to carry. I did what I was told to do. I don’t remember why the dragon had to die. I don’t remember if there was a princess or if she was saved or if she even had a name. 


2. 


I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.


3.


I find you in the field beyond the sea, twisting flowers out of their stems. You smoked with the others, sand crusting the J, the paper wet with spit. Everything began to sink in and out of your horizon, then the ocean came too close, your mother reaching for your feet, & so you left. Walked straight up the grassy hill, scratchrose thorns kissing your heel. We biked all day, the wind scraping our cheeks. I was tired, you weren’t. In a few days, we’ll go back to New York & in a few months, we’ll graduate high school. We won’t talk outside of Facebook birthday posts & that long message I’ll send you when your foster dad dies. It happens in his sleep, in those timeless hours. One moment here, the next gone. Sinking in and out of the horizon. Right now, you’re stoned & you’re ripping out weeds. I give you my tuna fish sandwich & you tell me it has too much mayo. You toss me the bruised peach in your bag. Achilles, you never told me what drowning was like. You never told me it was the closest you had to a home.


4.


I spill warm milk out the window and all the creatures whine at the doors. Look, I’m bad at playing hero – my cape’s on backwards & I always get lost in the forest. I know you’ve got your doubts. Listen, baby, things are gonna be okay. I never loved you like that anyway. In this story, I make you a girl, and in that story, you make me a boy. See? We can both be happy. I’ve watched you cradle loss like a newborn, the ground outside full of things we love. I’ve got my ghosts and they wear my old clothes so well. My favorite one slips between us when we sleep, holds both our hands, quiets the clotting in my chest, cools the sticky rocks in your throat.  


5. 


And repeats, repeats in my ear: don’t you know, little fool, you never can win?


6.


Much later, the water comes & we don’t do anything to stop it. You know how I die – don’t watch, okay? You know how ugly I am when I cry. I’ll miss you, sugar doll. I’ll miss you, bumblebee. I’ll miss you, Achilles. I’ll wait for you in that coffee shop in Meknes. I’ll wait for you in the Philly airport. Baby boy, I’ll drizzle you with chocolate sauce & eat you right up. I’ll see you in this life or the next or the next or the next.

—  Briseis, Reimagined, Yasmin Belkhyr (with lines from Frank Sinatra)

anonymous asked:

I feel like Christi said that they would come back to Dance Moms every so often this season BUT they would NEVER be around Abby and that was a deal breaker for them so the producer have tried to schedule them when they think Abby won't be around like this week since Abby was supposed to be in London for M&Gs but Abby decided to stay for today's competition.

I have a feeling like that too. Which would make sense. I don’t think either one of them would go back and want to see Abby or Giana, so maybe that is the agreement they made.