Seventeen months and six days ago, with practice that could only be attached to a pair of nitrile gloves, they pulled apart generations of stratified tissue, classified the human from the mammal and presented the results on a stainless steel tray.
You’re fifteen, you’re trembling. The only working street light flickers and omits an ominous orange glow. Everything else is dark–the night, the thoughts in your head, the gun in your hand. The car slows as you approach the corner. There they are, Uncle Joe whispers, tonight you become a man.
The blood I scrub from the inside of my underwear is not the same as the blood I wipe from my mouth, not the same blood my mother lost when laboring over my birth, not what spilled from my grandmother’s head when her stepfather split it open for scrubbing a floor wrong. Not the same, but close.
The clock chimed seven …ding…ding…ding… and so on, until it let out one final loud ding that woke Forbes with a start. He shuffled slightly and managed to stretch his front and back legs just enough to prevent the cramp from setting in. He meowed happily as he heard the familiar whirring sound. His morning feed came shooting through the food hatch and plopped into his dish in a brown lumpy mush.
It was her first period for three months. Sitting on the lav with her knickers around her ankles and her knees falling apart, Mihaela saw the new slimness in her bare legs and grimaced. She thought of all the meals she’d missed since the promotion—the rushed breakfasts, the uneaten sandwiches, the insubstantial dinners—and how quickly it had become a matter of finding not the time but the inclination. Now she ate as irregularly and as little as she slept. No wonder her periods had stopped.
In 1978, punk rock vocalist Sid Vicious stabbed his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen to death. A copy of Vicious’ confession to New York police, titled; Voluntary Disclosure Sheet Supplement: People v. Ritchie aka Vicious, describes in detail the events as Vicious recalled them. Almost every line in this poem was taken directly from Vicious’ confession, with very little deviation. The poem, like the confession, is a lie, that is also the truth.