And/or


And while I am more than capable of being reduced to utility, I’m the cyborg-bog-witch in this equation. I keep my opinions to myself and the sorrow festering. I bury my toxicity deep in my canals. I contain two to seven times more hazardous metals and organic particles compared to air samples collected outside. Mess with me again and I will swallow you whole and fling your shiny facade into the atmosphere as a signifier of doom. There’s only room for one on this broom.


I am sorcery, or rather, candlelit sources of torment. I don’t do spells. I don’t conjure—I cajole. I am a fake ass psychic. A phony crone. A common sinkhole. I have an assortment of tarot decks and altarpieces and semi-precious crystals purely for decorative purposes. I harbor a considerable grudge against the authority of memory. I forget to water my familiars and besides, it would be pointless to reinterpret you as some kind of life lesson. I’m not the attention to detail type, you see, I’ve always preferred discretion. And I preferred those mornings early on, when we said ta-da! or aha! instead of good morning. The last time we met, you said every time we meet there is something I am no longer doing, or someone I’m no longer seeing. You neglect to concede the reasons why I never finish things, unless I’m getting paid to. I started learning three romantic languages and they’re all arrogant pricks.


I see your wizardry for what it is. You got your standard tactical tricks, and your obsidian eyes, and your go-to lines about intactivism and why it’s better to be uncircumcised. It’s like a plug, you say. And while I wouldn’t argue about alchemy, you proceed to be mean to me, like I deserve to be punished just for being satanic, so I go home and binge-read a free pdf on chaos magic, and cry me some infantile tears, and laugh inappropriately at unfunny things, and try to avoid spinning stories I would normally tell myself, like the one about how, right about now, you’ll be parading around with your unrelenting natural lubricant and your top hats, your rabbits, your handcuffs, your ropes, your gongs, your God, your rockets—all that bondage related stuff I seldom cared for. Then there’s your escape room, which I know you like to keep pristine. I throw my ugliest pair of shoes in there and wait for you to respond.

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