Walking Practice

by Dolki Min

Lump of flesh to lump of flesh.

As a matter of fact, a woman I met three months ago had chanted, I love you, over and over while eating my ass. She cleaved to my palpitating shithole, turning it into an ear and lips to receive her love.

Who could she have been calling out to, over and over? Did she have business with my small or large intestine?

I suction my lips to the stump of his neck and greedily drink it all down as his face dissolves in my stomach.

I have to steal human lives to continue my own. I’m sorry. Actually, that apology is a load of shit.

For them, life is so boring that if someone doesn’t walk with ease, taking steady steps on two healthy legs of the same length, they violently overreact as if they were waiting for it.

I have gathered, memorized, and internalized these past ten years without a hitch, but when I’m thrown off guard like before, I collapse like a sandcastle defenseless against the tide. Why can’t I blend in naturally with groups of humans? Won’t someone kindly share the secret? Can I become a human and receive love?

Know that if you aren’t crazy, at least once, there will come a time in your life when you simply cannot bear it. A time when it’s hard to tell exactly what trips your madness.

My body has a mind of its own and is constantly screaming for independence. It would probably get along just fine without me.

But if I were to try and make friends, is there any other way than t o s p l i t m y s e l f i n t w o ?

That’s why, when I was first learning to walk like a human, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out the difference between men and women. In my eyes, all humans looked exactly the same. I thought that things that look alike move alike. To put it a different way, I wondered how it was even possible to divide something with so many visible variants into just two groups. But humans keep bringing up their criteria and judge me by it.

The roles that were assigned to you without your consent are stuck to your body like a label: A label that you can’t remove before death. A label that can’t be removed even after death. The labels are invisible. They’re not really there, you know. They’ve melted into your flesh.

They may have even made their home in a deeper, more abstract part of you. You won’t be able to fish them out even if you’re sliced up to the point that your bones are exposed and your guts are spilling out of your carcass.

I’m a little closet crammed full of everything that was strewn across the living room and bedroom floors when you get the sudden news that a guest is coming over.

Just as it is wrong to grab my pussy, it’s wrong to grab my bag. I’ll kill you.