six foot tall trans lunar moth.
essays, poems, novels,
maybe short stories.
Trespassing, on the way.
Writing | K Stotz
Cut into my body, let me watch as you do it, let me watch and I’ll feel nothing as you cut into my body, this object of intrigue in which I am trapped, and in which here we go with, doing things to me, into my body, all around inside me, all over me, touch me here, here in the centre of warmth where no one goes, this place of secrets that you’ve never seen before; I want you to cut into it, I want to be cut by you, I want you to find me in here waiting, to bring me alive through my screaming ruckus, and out of my body forever, please do this, please cut me and let me feel you, cut me with the blade of medicine, give me my medicine and fix me. Oh it’s such a warm and humid day outside, this is the humidity of dreams of the womb, this place is hard to move through because of its dense environment, given to me by the flowered winds that I can smell, this body of mine smells them and wants them inside it, them being those birds, those daisies—the field is cut, the field has been cut, and the daisies that once covered it now only line its exterior, the field is cut and I am here waiting; they will never be back, cut me so that I’ll never be back, cut me into pieces and into someone else. This is my desire to be sexually cut open by you, to be operated on in the heart of all this moisture, to lay and writhe as you sit over my body and cut into me, and to feel the blades you tickle my soft genital skin with, tickle me with those razors, and enter into me, enter into all that I have and draw out the inner muds and flowing plasmas that make up my body, the fluids that fill every ounce of me all at once and that push my skin to its round softness, the softness I can tell you love to touch, cut into the softness with silver, cut out of the softness again and see the sun, see it there through all the grey that flows like flowering wraiths across the equilateral highways of heaven, here on the dissecting board like a body in a theatre to be watched down on from above by your surgeon friends, yes invite your friends and operate on me all at once all of you, tickle me open, and like the daisies no more; I want my mind to be as reduced as that field is of daisies, I want my consciousness to border me only in a band of white daisies, and I want to watch you operate on me, I want to watch you fill me from the edge of my field, like the leftovers of a once beautiful field. But oh now that I can smell the fresh cut grass I wonder, I wonder at it all silently—but without a thought in my head. I will look down my body like a little child being pleasured by another for the first time, and if you can’t give this to me I’ll rupture myself in the presence of the world and let it into me, my face sweating as its body imbibes all the otherness it can—but who cares about the thing in itself, I want to know me in myself by way of being cut open, to reveal me to myself so that I may enjoy myself—yes to truly enjoy myself as I am preserved within this body, faraway from everyday thought, a much deeper presence than my own, but nonetheless my own. So fragile, I’m so fragile, and this is why to cut me is to pleasure me, because you must cut with the tiniest of incisions, with the steadiest of steady hands, and slowest of slow thoughts—slow your thoughts to a focused point and with your pointer finger along the top edge of the silver blade focus the blade as an extension of your mind and cut in the straight line that is possible in your head, but impossible in the world of matter—this line will give you pleasure because it will give me pleasure because it will be the dividing line of heaven in all its exactitude; divide me to find the heaven inside.