When you wake up, you will want to have sex with everyone and everything, incessant heartbeat, harbinger strut, a hummingbird of want in your italics, fat, wet and juicy, or was it fat, juicy and wet, what bruno mars said, your slime the swarm, from the moment you wake up, though they never sunk you asleep, just loopy relaxed, localized they brutalized you raw, they emptied your tunnel out, so the only heartbeat left was yours; so yes, you wanted to fuck his voice that doctor and the dad at the kiddie pool, you’re not even a dad bod girl but you would sink your knees on his chest against linoleum in the locker room – tell me, who would know?  – but you mean everything, you want to fuck men and women, the moon, waxing gibbous, the lifeguard at the pool, rhinoceros, the lady on the tube with the implants, you want to have sex with your favorite houseplant and you wanna fuck your food, yes, bacon, you would fuck bacon, you would hold the pork rinds in hand and fuck butter at the same time, so you called the doctor because for a moment you wanted to have sex with everyone and everything, God, you’d fall so hard for a flying saucer, a spaceship ravage, my sweet lord you could give it to a pool noodle, so you called and said, since the surgery i feel, i feel like i was never allowed, i mean i feel like I’m ovulating 24/7, “oh,” she said as you pictured a storybook grandma on the other end, “are you in pain?” because when you’re feminine, any plush in you, any lightning –  presume hurt. pathos; oh no I said I’m just horny all the time and then she giggled like a retired Aunt Lydia, like a good girl, Thinkpol in granny spectacles, oh my, who role-plays in costumes with her husband of twenty-five years on Friday nights; you can see her now: she’s dressed like a mouse and he’s a bear with whiskers and that was it, the line click, so you continued to wanna fuck everyone and everything, even your husband who you did not want, but you wanted everyone and everything and so he got swept in, plus Crypto, Bitcoin, all of them milked in parallel universes, in the light years far gone in the places where the stuff they razed, the life stuff, the llama dramas, the electromagnetic radiation, the cosmic interplay of new forms of magnetization, the OG bump and Grindr, the Big Bang’s big twink sister, they cleared it out, the funk that might actually grow alive, the eggs oomphed into embryos into life glimmering goofy, another realm like stars, and then: he phoned. It was him. Perhaps I should back up a moment.

This is from the time when violence was allowed; it’s still allowed because it happens all the time, but this is from the time when there were no trigger warnings and couples could slap each other toxic and wrestle, and it was deemed fine. Wholesome, like rotisserie chicken from Costco. It was filmed. It was filmed as romance in a movie. It was the documentary called real lifes lived. You could toilet paper houses, throw things out windows, carbo-load; lawsuits had been invented, but it was different. Cute. The laws didn’t give a shit, so you took a rock and threw it at his windshield, love actually and in your dreams, the whole thing erupted into granules and shattered like a stunned piñata molting, the Virgin statue crying, all glass shards like mini-Mars bars, the kind your mom said not to eat.

Let’s be clear:

You destroy things.

Relationships, kinfolk, sinks, yourself, you destroy good, life, kept; you destroy love, so place that rock on your own tongue and swallow.

You know how to choke.

You would submit to a Dyson, lovebomb a blender, you would tease the slow cooker real good; you would cuckhold Brutus and Caesar and stones left by Medusa; you would get thick with the Big Bad Wolf. Ketamine. Antigone. Come on. That’s not even a question; Zeus’s rain me, you would cuff gamma rays you would reverse cowgirl Santa’s sleigh and Saturn’s rings; you’d get tied up in their circles like a kinky thing and lick their rain like a dirty dolphin. Confess: you would let the stars shoot all over you. You’re proud of this. You would suck a couch no questions asked you would bite the arm of a chair for sure, but to wishbone a rainbow would be a boon you would plunk your face in the white puffy cloud at the end of the cookie bars of colorful rainbow light, you would totally do that; you would go all the way with confetti and rice, spank James’ giant peach, oh my God how you would snuffle them up like an anteater, you could slurp ibuprofen, heaven, how you would let cannabis mess on your cheeky little capybara rump; blow the sewing machine, robotically speaking, sidle up Duolingo, swing with Clippy; prove it to reCAPTCHA on the crosswalk, then: you would fuck the deed to the house and the mortgage with your name still on it; God, you would deflower the storage unit, unlocked —you narcissist: watch me lay these eggs in that Mercedes Benz. They don’t want to know, but you would fuck a violin.

This was back when violence was allowed. That time they cleared out your lumen, took it hot like a controlled burn, peeled you of love and left you on fire. Cold. So when you wake up, you will want to have sex with everyone and everything, fat, wet and juicy, oyster shucked, you will want to reach your hands from the singed and raw, like a baby, sweet coconut, abandoned sea otter, mewling, pick me up, up, you want to open to everyone and everything, please—

When you wake up, the pain is this:

You want God.