mallory

listen to me. listen to me. i’m sit
liberatadora tied into another one of those cheap chairs, she’s nineteen and righteous and spitting
mad. she’s got a cross hanging on a chain between her tits her name is mallory and she organized a
dance series for young peo
first and the fucking afterwards.

i pull the uniforms out of the room and i get her a paper cup fu
she can’t stop talking. at first it’s mostly swearing at me. ugly words come out of her p
shit from a flower. i like her but
will give themselves to you if you wait long enough.

she’s talking about the
equality, she’s talking about things she saw on a mission trip to south america
understand and the thing is i *do* understand. her friends who never left home are too narcotized on
parepin to care but six months away from the water supply has woken her u
me, now, the innocence of it is staggering and i want to say They are going to kill you, mallory, if you
don’t shut up, but she can’t stop talking she’s passionate that way.

only time it ever got to me.

finally i told her to shut up tha
going to pulp her young body with rocks what a waste.

still tied to that chair.

here’s the funny part she made me cut off a lock of her hair I didn’t want to i didn’t want to take out my
knife but tied in that chair she made me do it. and m
always and i did sometimes i stop to touch it while i’m writing this for you th
you this story is so you understand it’s all a lie i don’t give a damn about you i’m only pretending to care
but you’re dead and i’m going to hell and




fuck i don’t know why i bother

mallory

listen to me. listen to me. i’m sitting on a metal folding chair in a catholic church basement. there’s a
liberatadora tied into another one of those cheap chairs, she’s nineteen and righteous and spitting
mad. she’s got a cross hanging on a chain between her tits her name is mallory and she organized a
dance series for young people where certain kinds of politics were a kind of foreplay between the beer
first and the fucking afterwards.

i pull the uniforms out of the room and i get her a paper cup full of non-alcoholic punch. she’s so scared
she can’t stop talking. at first it’s mostly swearing at me. ugly words come out of her pretty mouth like
shit from a flower. i like her but i also think about doing things to her. i don’t talk much because people
will give themselves to you if you wait long enough.

she’s talking about the why now, what she was hoping for. she’s talking about social justice and
equality, she’s talking about things she saw on a mission trip to south america, she’s trying to make me
understand and the thing is i *do* understand. her friends who never left home are too narcotized on
parepin to care but six months away from the water supply has woken her up. she is trying to convince
me, now, the innocence of it is staggering and i want to say They are going to kill you, mallory, if you
don’t shut up, but she can’t stop talking she’s passionate that way.

only time it ever got to me.

finally i told her to shut up that she was dead already that she was going to be stoned that they were
going to pulp her young body with rocks what a waste.

still tied to that chair.

here’s the funny part she made me cut off a lock of her hair I didn’t want to i didn’t want to take out my
knife but tied in that chair she made me do it. and my hand shook. made me swear that i would keep it
always and i did sometimes i stop to touch it while i’m writing this for you the only reason i am telling
you this story is so you understand it’s all a lie i don’t give a damn about you i’m only pretending to care
but you’re dead and i’m going to hell and we will never see each other again.




fuck i don’t know why i bother