03. LETTERS from an ANATOMICAL WAX MODEL
I’m quiet, one hand lightly touching my own jaw, the other in the cavity created by the space where my vital organs should be, They’re braided my hair. I’m supposed to be full of shit, wet with blood or cum, may saliva; the contents of my stomach gently swishing with every movement. Instead, I’m quiet. I look like I’m asleep.
My organs are laid out beside me, handled with a loving care I find almost offensive. I’m empty, I’m angry—but then, I’ve been angry before, and where did that get me?
Laid out on a table; pretty, useless. I have nothing left to give of myself because it’s already been taken from me. My shiny, shiny organs are on display; I vomited my viscera and it was filled with clumps of hair, felt a panic attack in my bone marrow, and I apologized to you. How fucked up is that? I’m in the habit, it seems, of leaving little bits of myself everywhere. But then, can’t you see it? I wasn’t always like this. What will you do now that you’ve taken what was mine and put it on display for everyone to see?
Art is love. Did you hear me. Art is love. What can’t I love the bits scraped off, taken from me? I’m hard and waxy now, I can feel the weight of my insides. They’re started to turn, too—I am acutely aware of my spleen, my liver, my lungs. They’re filling up with rocks or soap, and a slight bruise of unbecoming is blooming across my stomach. They’ve taken my blood, too.
You can examine my intestines. They’re longer than anyone could’ve expected, but loving detailed with veins and mass. Look, you can see one of the sculptors loved them so much that he tied of the end with a ribbon.