order

I ingested something from the spaceship. I don't remember if it was fed to me or if I took it voluntarily. But I remember that it may or may not have been a flower, or their food version of what a flower would look and taste like where I come from. Perhaps a better tasting replica, bitter but punching irresistible tart sweetness, just daring me not to devour. Or maybe plucked from some sacred space of an extraterrestrial landscape where the colors were all off. It may or may not have been blue. I may or may not have crouched in a corner, or what passes for a corner in their sleek white ship. Pretending to be in a corner, turned toward a wall, curling inward, pivoting myself invisible.

I do remember that- acting as if no one could spot me in the middle (or beginning, or end-- everything in this craft goes in circles) of the room. But they saw me licking it curiously, a child hoarding a candy prize under the dinner table with eyes blacker than they should be, pupils saucer sized, and kept moving forward on their own business in their otherworldly way, ignoring me as if I were playing an immature game. I watched shadow strides of the adults, or creatures bigger than me, not quite walking but slinking, one silhouette after another marching intermittently, then closer together until each became indistinguishable from the next. I made flowers of my own hands, my fingers inward turning blooms that could unfold this specimen of beautiful sustenance, and I did, I think, gaze at it for some time, or maybe even at fields of them after I ingested it, after I'd shredded its delicacy with my canines, a wolf teasing a bloom from earth after the frost melts, curiouser and curiouser. Made messes of its petals with my molars, finally grinding that impossible blue into its own starry oblivion after grazing it on my lips and tearing at it tentatively until I couldn't wait anymore, staining my tongue the color of frozen slushees or summer skies looking up from under bleachers, each taste bursting of a memory until they all combined and I was consuming my own life. The sex of the flower, the middle, I turned inside out, staring curious and imagining its outrage as I bared it and dared to touch my tongue on what was probably the rawest nerve, pushing it back and forth, exploring sweet, salty, sour and bitter in maddeningly slow tastes, stretching what was left of it to the breaking point until it exploded and 90's arcade color assaulted the backs of my eyelids. This probably isn't right. Surreal bliss then, a sudden memory of when I was three and used to slip a barbie doll's head on my finger under my sheets those hot nights when I fought with slumber. Stroke me to sleep with your pink lipped smile and those white teeth that can't bite. Keep your eyes open the whole time. Bury your face in this alien place, here in the dark and quiet. I'll writhe without sound and I know you can't tell anyone. I don't even know what I'm doing except that it's reserved for the dark and it makes my head explode like a dying star. I don't know why I involve you except that you happily keep my secrets and I like the way your face feels when I rub it in my privacy. My head tingles the same way now and I can't quite get my breath back, my legs askew like a junkie.

One of the tall ones peers into my face. I laugh and colors stain its blank face, and it backs away. I'm giggling prisms, making a mess of their walls. My fingers are stained an impossible holographic hue. Maybe I look like a deranged back alley paint huffer and this makes me laugh even harder. Maybe they'll take my picture to remind me later when I regain control of my complete lack of order. What childishness. But it doesn't make any difference because the place is being overrun with black palm trees and they're lost in the fronds, becoming more and more distant and unreal. They scold me from afar but I can only see neon rainbow streaky sky. She appears white against all of this color noise with the shiny, impossibly large eyes of a lycanthrope and kneels while I gasp at her very existence, wondering momentarily if I should kneel myself. Saint Android, patron of the hurtle, of uncharted galaxies. But she yanks my legs into a more sensible arrangement, retaining that painted but now coy smile commanding surrender. Plastic but ethereal, I wonder where her model numbers are or if they are a smattering of arcane symbols. Maybe she'll spill her code when her lids tip, those luminous orbs of oracle darkened by her own lapses, or I'll find answers between every eyelash, decipher the patterns of blush response that stray from her programming. I grab her hair and pull hard, my fingers pushing into her, doll to please me, and careening through space, finally smear her lipstick.

((flowers))

((empathy test))