After Never Angeline Nørth
Two monster girls give each other
back rubs in the back of a Toyota Camry.
Two monster girls have never seen
each other or anyone like themselves
and email back and forth pitch-shifted
self portraits of hacksaws.
Two monster girls upload a PDF to
MonstersPlace.com about how to
biohack survival using common toiletries and
uncircumcised hypodermic needles.
Monster girls know rituals; old magic;
blood sigils and mystic text study
and autostigmata; there's a way to get there
if you have a knife and conviction.
Cost of admission: a precious burden.
Most girls offer an organ. A flap of skin.
Tendons plucked from gently unbound wrists.
Every monster girl spends her life accumulating
rituals and spells to bring about the end of time.
This is what all her wishes are, at their core.
"One day we'll be together,"
every single atrocity says to every other.
"One day I'll be real and you can touch
me in meatspace." It's a convergent prayer,
independently developed across time and
space, in the thick throatfolds of every
monmusume. We just want to be born. We're
just tired of waiting to be real.
The prophecy reads: one day,
the sun will explode, or a nuclear apocalypse
will bless the treeline, or mother Poseidon
will consider us too bashful and take us home.
One day, there’ll be a set of arms for every girl,
and more hugs than you can steal.
One day, there isn't left handed or right
handed, there aren't chromosomes to solve for like "X"
or "Y," there aren't even people left,
only monsters, turned loud and uncountable,
unhung from starskies and pulled from the sea.
Every imaginary girl, downloaded,
turned bloodshed real,
every girl who ever wept
while whispering "I want
to burn it all down,
I want to make everything new,”