Conception.

Now you mould me.

Maybe you held the image of my form before conception. I am your clay. Not a soul but born as microscopic elements all for you Dad.

 

Phagocytosis. Every bit of pain in your solar system will be filled with my microbial being, I will seek out every cell of hurt and engulf them into my membrane. Even if the process kills me in autophagy.

 

I will fast so long, a whole lifetime, from my own desires, that ketosis will be my constant state.

I will not know homeostasis with God, only co-dependent father daughter stasis. Chained up and bound.

 

My soil was born with potentialities of singing arias to fill the nights sky and stars.

My hands were born to run across frets, strings, keys, gardens, and my soulmates form.

 

But instead, my soil became the dirt that you would mix with your chemical water of taking.

 

My soul does not feel like its from God, instead I feel like dust, dirt and soil dredged from the earth for you.

 

Instead of a soul I became a clay slab, no shape, no colour, just a mouldable matrix.

So complex and infinite in potential, yet just sitting there waiting to be turned into who you wanted me to be.

 

And where the fuck were you God? Why did you not show me I was a treble clef and not a slab of clay?

Why didn’t you colour the minerals of my souls soil as Gold and let them shimmer so bright my father dare not ever mould them as he would know they were Holy? Why?

Instead my potentials were invisible, all he saw is the shape, the design, the statue he wanted me to be.

I was there for him, to be who he wanted me to be, never just there to grow into me.

 

Mould some big breasts and hips, mould some big eyes. Then she will never forget her purpose is sex.

Fawn will be her middle name and she will fawn over you always, never to know herself.

If she ages I don’t care, that’s her problem to deal with. I am moulding what I want from her, the waste is hers to digest.

Mould some long arms to hug and wrap around me, her hugs and touch are all for me.

Mould her personality to pander to my every whim before I have one. Warp and knead her God given warmth into a tendress of my emotions.

Mould her voice to attune to mine so she never knows her own.

Mould so much self doubt that she is pliable and controllable incase she ever wants to leave.

If she grows a desire to leave, squash that bit of clay down and mould it back to fit my sculpt. Squash down that time she left for France, squash down that time she tried to create her own music and band, squash down her opera, squash down her intellect, squash down her love for anyone but me. Those part better not exist, if they do breathe life the threat of my hand is there.

 

Keep my chemical water wet over this mould so she will always remain pliable and taste my flavour, even while she sleeps, even while with other men.

 

God, Will I ever know an equal love in this life? Will I ever know happiness in my own body?

Will my body ever feel like mine, a resonant body of music and heart, not a sexual object for men?

Will I ever feel clean. Pure?

Will I ever feel whole?