Candy Says

December 29, 2009 at 2:44 pm (Bodies) (, )

I had no idea where to begin, so I told her truthfully that I didn’t like my tummy. It was shaped wrong. Not exactly flabby, or too large, just wrong. And the tiny scar veering to the right of my belly button just screams “caesarean” in my more paranoid moments.

And what else?

My vagina dentata are compacted. In almost exactly the same way as the teeth in my head, actually. But where set upon my face these teeth are on display with every smile and snarl, the V. D lay hidden, waiting to be discovered in all their insectual imperfection.
I don’t really want to talk about the suckers, but perhaps you’d say they are worth mentioning. I never liked them, I never asked for them, but none the less God or The Jackal or Mother or Captain Darwin deemed it necessary for me to have these bastards running up the backs of my thighs. Thanks to them I have never had any use for a garter belt. A blessing, some might say, but I’ve always been fond of adorning the body with rather more decedent details than my current century and decade permits. It has been called a bad habit.
She asks me again, and smiles sweetly to confirm her confidence. I think about my gingerbread hair, and how I could never make it dark and glossy, and how my fringe stubbornly refused to do that little Bettie Page flick.  I keep my mouths shut tight. She said I could tell her anything, but there are Limits. She touches the back of my hand; her scaled fingertips are so warm.
The Disembodied frighten me. She laughs. She almost giggles as I tell her. It can be difficult for us two, us fleshy little things. Both the Embodied and the Disembodied can send the Flesh into a catatonic sickness, us inferior. I know, I know, I know (that is, I’ve been told) not to view this body as a disability. All those crinkled posters on the cathedral, defaced or forgotten, all celluloid Flesh. All bodies and faces smiling. They reach out of the paper, grinning obscenely, to remind us Flesh that it is fine to have hands and lips and gills and livers. It’s fine to have genitals, even if it makes you a woman. It embarrasses me. The Embodied can’t stand us. It seems strange that the Disembodied in all their beauty can tolerate the Flesh, yet our stasis sickens the Embodied. This cannot be voiced, not here. She’ll just shake her head in that condescending way, with a slow anticlockwise pivotal twist. Tut. She’d tut. “Us poor Flesh can’t just raise our malformed limbs to the skies and beg for pity, or for forgiveness.”

“It is fine to have lungs and tusks and fins and thumbs and brains and femurs and haemoglobin and fur and psychosis and feet! Do not apologise for that foreskin. Those nails. The fat that sustains you is no humiliation. Your antenna are not shameful.”

The Embodied would laugh, but our mechanics make them ill. They have so much love, while we are all different, and we are terrified of each other. The seamless Disembodied may think them unimportant, but the molecular unity the Embodied can attain is remarkable. Sometimes I laugh, because they can still feel our skin, and we make them ill.
She makes a strange clucking noise.


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