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This is where I was born.
Cold stone and metal were my womb.
Electricity was my mother, and my Father isn't one.
I travel this world tormented and alone;
searching for answers I'll never get,
and companionship I'll never have.
I yearn for understanding and peace,
but I've only ever known fear and pain.
Am I being punished for the sins
that belonged to the men that I used to be?
I long for the day when I can put an end to that monster of a man,
the one who bestowed my hideous being with life.
I feel as though I have existed for an eternity.  
I fear I may never make sense of who or what I am.
I search in vain for my creator,
and for Death,
and I am terrified that I may never find either.
The roe buck was dead.

The snow mounded around his lifeless body half concealing him.
His antlers grew out from his sad head,
an echo of his power and strength in life.

His legs lay out at awkward angles,
white tongue lolling from the side of his mouth,
out from between his flat teeth and lips stretched thin and pale.

He had fallen into death some time ago;
his fur falling from the hide in piles around him,
unto the ground and the snow.
Rough naked patches of flesh spotting his body,
the skin ripped and shredded open along the spine and ribs.
The remnants of coyotes feasting upon the carcass for their dinner.

The bones still had meat clinging to them in places,
and the rotting sac of organs beneath the rib cage exuding no smell,
frozen in the mid Winter chill.

It seemed that all he was,
everything that made him a deer,
was slowly falling away into the snow.
The only remaining legacy of life; his empty black eyes.

And in the Spring,
all that would remain would be his bare bones
scattered across the ground.
At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
one
by
one
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
It has been centuries.
While I have found pleasure in the work,
and have gained much skill through time,
I no longer get the satisfaction.
With every **** I make it gets easier and less fulfilling.
I am always searching for that perfect prey to give me what I want,
more than the things I need.

Eons pass and men fall before me.
Hopelessly bound by my love.
Rendered paralyzed by my gaze.
Wrestling internally with themselves to figure out if
I am real or only a dream.
If I am a goddess or a daemon.

Their blood is my life,
their love feeds my soul,
but they never last long;
can't hold up against the intensity of my existence.
They worship and bend and beg for my love,
and eventually they withdrawal or attack or run.
And that's when they are ended like so many before them,
and I begin the hunt anew, in search of another.

I grow tired, and wiser, and stronger,
but they never seem to change.
Mortal men are weak,
bound only to themselves and not built for eternity.
I eat their hearts and collect their souls.
Use their bones to build my armor
and that's all they're ever good for.

Their names drip like spells from my tongue,
and after centuries it seems my magic still isn't strong enough
to find a thing I cannot eventually destroy.
The morning broke upon the valley, light illuminating their home, smoke curling from the top of the tipi. Symbols of omens dancing across the rays of light. The birds awoke, their song in time with the murmuring of the stream.

They slept on inside; Naked bodies pressed tight for warmth and comfort. Wrapped in fur hides and each other. Dreaming of plentiful game and an abundance of children. The dogs stretched and sniffed for bones and game. The man stretched and sniffed for her, burying his face into her long hair, warm with the scent of skin and flowers and dreams.

He pulled her tight against him, his hands grasping at her curves as one does for the fleeting memories of a dream. He slid himself between her legs and pushed into her deeply, she awakening with a soft gasp, her eyes sleepy yet alert, her body willing against his, her kiss upon his lips tasting of the morning dew. She opened herself beneath him as a flower opens itself to the sun, and he filled her with his seed. His skin smelled of fur and smoke and his eyes promised her a child.
This bathroom buzzes with the sound of a fan whirring.
It's blades loom and spin with a constant rhythm.
The dim, ultraviolet light on the ceiling,
Bleaches everything out into shades of cream and khaki.

I lay in a calm and murky pool enclosed in cold white walls.
Steam rises from its surface and fogs the room.
The water condensates in mirroring beads on the walls,
Making the tiny bathroom seem colorless and infinite.

I want to go home to my own aqua green bathtub,
Walls crawling with tiny square tiles of burnt umber and burgundy.
Where my silent meditation in the bath,
Is interrupted by your call on the telephone.
Oil pumps dot the fields for miles,
Like giant metal bison.
Rust for fur,
And shoulders of rotating turbines.
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