Amy

Do you know your pictures are on the internet? Perhaps you say to your photographer: look at my nudity and my freedom and my beauty and my love; look at me masturbating or bathing, look at me loving myself, and love my image with your camera. Point it at here and in there and O!, the everywhere of me - just me.

Perhaps you say to him: snap, snap, and see! It is not just you and me, it is you and me and me and me and me and me. And all that you are is your eyes, and all your eyes are, are little mirrors reflecting the universe of me.

And perhaps he says to himself: that’s what you think. It’s me and you and the world, and the world is dotted with men masturbating themselves with their monitor, drowning with the dirt of their masculinity your nudity and your freedom and your beauty and your love.

And me, I, fist, say to myself: Look!, now her blog is flecked with little fists of ejaculate, scented with chilly and salt, resembling a spoon of cheesy yoghurt, and stuffed with diseases and an army of arrows, which hurtle forward fist-like, in a quest to hunt down an ovum. Your ovum, Amy; any ovum, Amy; the world’s ovum, Amy. Amy.