I obey the sovereign state of your thighs. I allow myself
to be ruled under the cruel Emperor. No democracy,
I live and languish in your birthright, thightocracy.  
The only vote is for your thighs. The body politic
starts with it. I behave best in the monarchy
between your thighs. Who needs liberty when I have the jail
of your thighs? The sci-fi of your thighs. I build a temple.
I wear white lace and am devoted to your thighs, make
a votive. Like Crocodopolis, I mummify and deify. I am
the high thigh priestess of your body. Worshiping the ham
of you. I light candles for your thighs. Go on pilgrimages.
Recite the sacred papers. Into the night quote passages.
Study the cryptology of your thighs. Pretend
the night is young and put my head between
your thighs. Pretend the night is late and let your thighs
become my fate.  Our erotic games, names, playful exchanges
could only go so far. When you wanted to give me a taste.
You’d send me photos of your thighs. Heartbeats
between the sheets where I dive. Give me the fetish,
the crocodilian weight of your legs. The tooth resting
place called your legs. There is nourishment.
Camouflage the milk inside my head with visions of your legs.
When I am sick compel me with the broth, the medicine,
of your legs. When I am scared send me the apotropaic magic.
When I am bad sit me down and spank me on the flank. Some
kind of bread. I am fed. When I am dead, O bury me in your legs.

If you told me that I literally had to eat poop every single day and I would look younger, I might.

— Kim Kardashian

All things change in a dynamic environment. Your effort to remain what you are is what limits you.

— Ghost in the Shell

Robobitch, robopathology. We are still stuck in the crack
between empowerment feminism and reality. I suffered

because of the way my body looked. Beauty is over.
A stripper who wouldn’t stop at the clothes. She continued

with old useless flesh. She pulled off one bloodless strip
after another. Problems swallowing, speaking, breathing.

Loss of strength; overall muscle weakness. I’d hated my body
for years, felt both obscured and exposed by it, and subjected

it to many acts that others wanted irrespective of my desires.
Confusion over the boundaries between self and technological

system. Double-vision; blurred vision; drooping eyelids. Culture
depicts women as the signs of objects but not usually the processors

or subjects of knowledges. Here women and computers are structurally
equivalent: friendly to users, not themselves users. She’d used up

the currency of a youthful face. The frozen look—remember, youthful
faces move—a maternal or feminine body to be penetrated, but up

and manipulated in quests to appropriate and control resources.
The relation between organism and machine has been a border war.

Women’s bodies are already ‘transitional objects.’ All humans
are cyborgs all cyborgs are sharp shards of sky wrapped in meat.

Not all humans are ready to call themselves glass stalactites pissing
the bed. Loss of bladder control. Youth and beauty are not

accomplishments. They're the temporary happy byproducts of time
and/or DNA. Feeling as ugly as you feel, feeling your doom as you are.

You’re looking at a manifestation of a connection so deep
and rooted that it’s more real than I am. You’re looking at my face.

“Botox Cento” Sources: Cybersexualities: A Reader on Feminist Theory, Cyborgs, and Cyberspace Ed. Wolmark, , Susanna Schrobsdorff  “Justine Bateman’s Aging Face and Why She Doesn’t Think it Needs Fixing”, Melissa Febos’ “The Feminist Case for Breast Reduction”, Diane Seuss’s “Beauty is Over”, William Gibson’s Neuromancer, Botox Warning Label, Lauren Valenti & Chloe Atkins “Here’s What You Need to Know About Preventative Botox in Your 20’sDonna Harroway’s “Cyborg Manifesto”, Franny Choi “Turing Test_Love”, Carrie Fisher Tweet Dec 29th, 2015 9:51pm, Katie Berta “I Realized Skincare Would Not Save My Life.”

I am only yours when you’re not looking at me.
When you do look, I try to belong to someone else.

The only real danger is the imitation of the imitation.
If you fall in love with her, she’s a decoy for me. Meaning,

she’s all of me except for me. My necro-crystal sister,
I’m a decoy of a woman. A poor symbol. Rapid decoy decay.

I refuse to enter my body into the system of language
where you write me next to every other woman you’ve met.

I’m a champagne slit. You cannot drink. The ice age
between us, within. Enigmatic megafauna. Molten come

lava. If you really can’t touch me, I’ll be fine. The safest place
to drink in this town is the church bushes. Don’t ask me

how I know that. But if you see me there keep walking.