She got these marks on her arms. Little ones. Little scratches like those you get from bared cat claws, but ain’t no cat done these. These done by glass, maybe scissor. Could be she dragged the instrument over that pale flesh cause she was bored. Could be she wanted to fight pain with pain. Or maybe she like the idea of having some tribal scars to show the world she primal and she know what it like being alive and fighting the real fight. She put some colour on her face. She lay on her back and finger herself watching what’s going on in a mirror. She placed it at the foot of the bed, and as her fingers conjure startling visions, and strange sensations tingle upon her lips, she bite her tongue between her teeth so intrigued by what she sees. She make quite the mess. There be dirty tissue paper all over the floor resembling the torn petals of a flower, but she keep going. With quickened heart, she sees images of old lovers followed by images of her father. There be teardrops and black flowers that shoot and come into bloom as her fingers get the rhythm just right. Her eyes narrow and she take a few gulps of air and with each circular motion here comes another wave. With each groan, here come beads of sweat and bits of soul and a thousand mirrors imploding in her temporal lobes. And then. And then. And then the sweet taste of electricity. When she come out the zone she watch as juices dribble down her thighs. She see herself as a landscape. Mother to the world. The source of life to all things. The trees and oceans. The animals and insects. They teem. She wear a black halo. A crown of ghosts. Sniffing her fingers, she open her mouth and speak words. Words that float out the window to those on the streets below. Closing one eye and then the other, she breathe in dust. She slip into sleep, and as her belly rise and fall, she twitch her nose and go someplace else.