March 3, 2016. Sea Witch presents: LET IT BLEED Featuring Gothic Tropic, Everyone Is Dirty & Peachelope.
THE SEA WITCH ZINE VOL II Shannon Harney Emily Ballaine
“Moon of a Bitch” “Details”
CHELSEAXCHANG “Q&A with a genderqueer on their period” Sivan Lioncub Kyle De Martini Lauren Espina
“My Neon’s Dead (The Blood Song)” “FROG” “That Kind of Boy”
Emily Alexander/Rebecca Swanberg “Missed Call” Nicole Salmeri
“11 Years Old”
Artwork by ghostsinmyramen
1
Moon of a Bitch Shannon Harney
1. I wake up like a torn skirt. Or a cracked whip. Every month, in the middle of the night. When the full moon is waning, I come up stark and alert. Activated from the inside. My pain has the round edges of a worn book bound, handed down by all the women in the world who’ve stained their fingers and sullied something cream colored. I am not alarmed by blood or By the sensation of shaking in my womb Or that I have a womb. I pad flat footed down the hall when all the boys are sleeping and illuminate a moment that I share alone with the girls and with the tide. 2. Kahlia liked to feed the plants. We tripped on acid in the beech forest and ran reckless into late morning, visiting a one-armed-woman for chai on a perch in a gully. Kahlia spends her cycle percolating and doting on the undergrowth, tipping brimming cups of sanguine broth on the clover and the Koru. We lapped the dew off the grass with our loud pink tongues. 3. When I was a teenager I was assaulted by an older guy from New York. It happened in a bathroom and I was vomiting. I wish I’d been on my period so I could have traumatized him Like he traumatized me. In a man’s world Blood means violence, it could have been my weapon.
2
Details
Emily Ballaine Once, when I was still young enough to think that age would bring the answers to all my questions, my mother told me the story of the children across the street and the mother who smashed their heads in with a hammer. We were sitting at the table. We were eating dinner. I don’t know why the story came up. I don’t know why she told me. My mother, you should understand, is not the sort of person who reveals personal details lightly. My mother, you should understand, is a bit of a mystery. So I don’t know why she told me this story of the children who grew up across the street from her. I don’t know why she chose that moment, that moment when I was still very young, though if you had asked me I would not have said I was not young at all, I would have told you that I was old enough to know things, I would have told you that I was an adult, I would have told you that I understood the world—and here I laugh at that person, and here I wonder who that person was, and here I wish I still thought the world was a problem to be figure out. Why she chose that moment to tell me about the children who grew up across the street from her when she was no more than a child herself and the mother who smashed their heads in with a hammer. This was not the way she put it. She did not say, “Smashed their heads in with a hammer.” She did not, I think, want that detail in my head. She did not, I think, want to damage me in a way that would one day prove irrevocable. Because take a minute and think about the detail of the hammer. Think about what that really means. Then think about my mother and I. Eating dinner. The evolution of conversation to revelation. This detail of the mother. This detail of the children. This detail of the hammer. This thing that I forced from her out of 3
a desire to know everything. Then think about what it takes for a mother to say that to her own child, her child, who, when the hint of a story has been revealed, must know everything. Then picture what type of child she must be to ask, What did she use to kill them?
So. What is the story.
There is my mother. She is not yet a mother. She will not be for a long time. She is a child really. There is the house she lives in. A nice house really. All the houses are nice houses really. All the houses are the same as, I suppose, each family is the same. And in one of these houses there is my mother. In one of these houses there are children who will have their heads smashed in with a hammer. She is their babysitter. Does she babysit them on the weekends, the weeknights? How often? How long? The dates are never clear. The parents are never clear. What does she tell me about? The children. She drags them to bed by their ankles. This is the game they play. My aunt, she told me, watched in horror from across the street as she dragged them across the living room. She didn’t see, my mother told me. She didn’t see that it was their favorite game. She didn’t see that I was their favorite. None of the other babysitters, my mother told me, dragged them across the room by their feet. Once, when I was still young enough to think there were answers to be found, my mother told me the story about the children and the mother and the hammer. And how I think I must have listened in horror. And how I think I listened with a desire to know more. What did I think of? The children. How old? Their names? Their clothes? Their likes? Their thoughts? Their favorite stuffed animal? Did they have friends? Did they think about boys? Did they think about girls? Did they go to school? Did they get good 4
grades? Did they look at themselves in the mirror and wonder is this a good face? Did they ask themselves what is this face? Did they think about the things the world might try to do to that face? Did they love their parents? What are these things but details. What are these things but questions I did not ask. Because these were not actual things that I thought of. These were not real people. They were my made up narratives. They were my details to a story. What did I ask? How did she do it? A hammer. A fire in the house. I don’t know if there’s more to this story other than once when I was sixteen my mother told me about the children across the street and the mother who smashed their heads in with a hammer. How the paramedics performed CPR on their broken bodies, spread out across the front lawn, as the neighbors stood on their own front lawns and watched.
5
6
What the Fuck: Q&A with a genderqueer on their period CHELSEAXCHANG
If you’re a lesbian, do you still bleed? What Yenno, do you still bleed down there? What Do you still get your period? What Do lesbians still have sex on their period? What Cause you guys like girls, so that means you guys think you’re actually guys? What the fuck Oh wait, transgender is the term, right? What For if you think you’re the opposite gender? What So, if you’re a transwomen, do you suddenly get your period? What If you’re a transman, do you still get your period or does your fake dick start bleeding? What the fuck For a man who is supposed to be so much smarter than me He sure asks a shit ton of fucking stupid questions For a man who is supposed to be so manly, here’s a question for him: If he’s so manly that he beat the shit out of a transwoman because “that ain’t a real woman” If he’s so manly that he beat the shit out of me because “a real man ain’t afraid of a little blood” Then why the fuck does my period gross you out Seriously 7
What the fuck 8
9
My Neon’s Dead (The Blood Song) Sivan Lioncub
My neon’s dead I’m a hologram poisoned under silver sky pink octagon the spider said one flew over the cuckoo oh no floating floating infirmary buck-tooth sexy nurse don’t take don’t take my blood again don’t take don’t take my blood again My neon’s dead I’m a hologram poisoned under silver sky plane crash I’m a photograph fading under heat lamp eyes oh no don’t wake me up I’m sleep walking whip whip lash and I’m grinning like a skull don’t take don’t take my blood again 10
11
FROG
Kyle De Martini Cat call, Cat call Stilettos, spandex, silhouettes Shinny sun dogs in heat Carnivore construction men craving meat Brown skin, white skin, pretty pink Latex mouth, toad tongue Boys just wanna have fun Cat call, Cat call “I heard it worked one time in Florida” Hips with invisible hula hoops Horny ear lobes fuck golden loops The mind is a lonely, dirty desert Panting the language, get what she deserves “Chico says down south it always works” Cat call, Cat call Break his heart, heart breaker Your already a prisoner in his mind, he’ll save you for later There is no God, you’re his religion Chivalry died with pre-ejaculation He’s a frog, not a man Sounds like ribbit to a woman Cat call, Cat call It’s a backward cigarette on the lips of the city Second hand smoking the moon Ever seen a drum circle at 4 a.m. in a mission hotel room? Unwanted, like spiders, nail on chalkboard Words stain like blood oranges Someone’s sister, mother, lover, even if she’s gorgeous 12
That Kind of Boy Lauren Espina
We drove through the city. The city where we met two and a half years earlier. Only it wasn’t the same city. Steel towers and luxury boxes littered the skyline, people walked faster, no one considered the rising horizon. It was darker. We were older. “I don’t want to be an old dad,” he said with the smug grin of youth on his lips. The smug grin that says I’ll never die. I was 22. I did not want to be a young mother. Do I even want to be a mother? New mothers are always young. “And I want a son.” “What’s wrong with having a girl?” “No I wouldn’t want a girl.” “Why not?,” I asked, “I’m a girl and it’s so nice having older sisters,” I said. And he said this with a smile: “Because I fuck the shit out of you.” I let those words echo on my ear drums, creep behind my neck, down my spine and into the sour pit of my stomach. The sordid tone behind them. His slimy hands on the steering wheel. The sick notion that he was paying me a compliment. I fuck the shit out of you. These seven words silenced me. And with my voice went my humanity. I faded into the passenger seat. I paled into the grey upholstery. Who am I? 13
A girl. A little girl. A sex object. A slut. A future mother. And brown too. Oh, she’ll love being a mother. Is there space for me to be anything else? My self-worth floated thirty feet above my head, threatening to disappear behind a building. The high rises got higher, the gridlock on Folsom tighter. I was shrinking. The realization that the world would cast me aside for later -- to be seen and never heard, fucked and ultimately thrown out. The realization that the boy next to me already had. And then I felt it. The power of words. The corrosive pleasure of anger. I fell back inside my body, displacing any affection I had for him. Attraction steamed out of my pores and evaporated into nothing. All his sweet words, all our tender moments turned to bile in my throat. A fire burned in me, but it had yet to melt my frozen tongue. I couldn’t speak. Not yet. As we continued to drive in silence, he was too busy jerking off in his mind to notice our semblance of love had melted into a seedy pool of shit. And while he was doing that, I fantasized about breaking his heart. My insides raged with the desire to destroy him. They writhed with hate and embarrassment, not for being a girl and not for liking sex, but for choosing this boy as my partner. This East Coast frat boy disguised as a hip West Coast progressive. My embarrassment was so consuming that even when I did break his heart, 14
I didn’t tell anyone about the moment that changed everything. I fuck the shit out of you. Not my friends who were also his friends. I fuck the shit out of you. Not my sisters. Not until now. So when I did break his heart, no one knew why I would let such an upstanding gentleman go. This good boy from a good family with a good job and a good name. Maybe he loved me. He sure loved money and business cards and cocaine. How sad, they said. Poor him, they still say. And I want to say, do you now what he said to me? Do you understand the power of words? I fuck the shit out of you. But instead I think of this: How ironic that he never fucked me well. And that makes me feel good, knowing he’ll never have the chance to fuck me well. Fuck him for assigning value to my body. Fuck him for making me his prize. But I really should thank him. How many women marry this type of boy before knowing what type of boy he is? The kind of boy who keeps one hand around your shoulder and the other over your mouth. So thank you for showing me what kind of boy you are. For teaching me what kind of boy should be destroyed from the inside out. And know this: These words will destroy him. They’ll make him feel as little as he made me feel. And that makes me feel good. 15
16
Missed Call
Emily Alexander / Rebecca Swanberg 7:55am Uhg I kissed Sam again tonight Feel like a lame stupid girl Like, I want people to think I’m available and to want me, even if I don’t want them at all. I bled all over my silk shorts and white sheets last night and I’d rather lay in my mess than deal with it. Took a selfie though. ‘tell me my cock is rideable’ ‘do you still want to talk?’ ‘can we redo that last conversation sober?’ ‘are you okay?’ Tell me why I should care so much!? // I wanna be uuuuuu
A woman and a girl. //
Yes.
I had a two hour massage today. It was phenomenal. She even massaged my breasts, and face. It was unreal. Next time we see each other, let’s walk a freeway overpass and flash the cars. 17
// 5:55pm It will come. Determination and patience. And devotion to your work. And coffee. And love. And pride. That’s not helping at all. I have so much to say Can you talk? Always needing you. I wish you were awake. Feeling desperate and defeated. // 11:50pm Friday night and I got my eyebrows on riiight. 9:00am Ur baby got laid. Tell me more Met him at a bar Round Montrose. Lightplay darkplay shadowplay fairplay foulplay inplay outplay inlay outlay all night all day all this all ways. Uhg Want Gimme
18
He called, I ignored. “Colddd” he said. I had made up my mind, and he was poisoning me, I was thinking to myself, selfish man. He barely touched me before he put his dick in me. I did all the touching. Why do I always have to do all the touching. (I don’t think it’s going to work out, between you and I. Why? No, it’s not you. Yes, it’s you. You’re damn selfish. I’m a catch. Spend an hour with the perfection of my body. Coax it into your hands. Make me melt into you. Remind me once more why I gave you that massage.)
When I’m naked my body is my body. It falls as it falls. This is me. I’m dependent on him and I hate it. I’m not jealous. well….Maybe a little. It’s raining outside A million little tears And I hear every one Lonely girl hearts club Tired all the time Wanted Unconditional love Why do I feel this way? I’m lying on my cold concrete floor. The warm breeze passes over my body in gusts. I love laying on the floor. When I’m happy it makes me feel free. When I’m upset, grounded. The floor is safe. The floor is comforting. The floor will never move or leave me. The floor is constant. Think I’m a crazy hot mess? Uhg. I wish we could lay in bed together in baggy gym shorts and sports bras and work on our craft, and pass some hot tea and a joint back and forth. 19
I have an interview today!
I’m getting my haircut! When I’m not feelin my hair. I just don’t feel myself.
11:55PM Thank God my tea’s still hot / the sky’s still blue / the clouds still move / and then there’s you FaceTiming You. Pick up.
20
11 Years Old Nicole Salmeri
I didn’t understand the power of boobs until way after I grew them. Puberty was a total bitch and I sprouted c cups practically over night at the age 11. Growing up with all brothers, I mainly identifying as a boy and my bullcut, buck teeth and slender body made that quite an effortless life style. My parents sat me down to have the conversion that I wasn’t like my brothers and handed me a training bra. I was horrified and I hid it under the bed. Soon after that, I was forced to wear a real bra like my mother. Suddenly it went from people questioning my gender to grown men staring at my body. I remember thinking very clearly that this was the first time I was in a situation that I really did not like and had no control over it. I remember it clearly. It was the moment I realized I wasn’t a child anymore. Yes, for me there was a distinct moment in my life when I knew it was all going to be different. I actually mourned my childhood at 11 years old. Always comparing my life to my male peers, I knew that 11 year boys were never forced to grow up that quickly, like suddenly they had a few more years of childhood on me. So I took back my life from nature, pulled a Now & Then and taped my boobs down every morning. It was time consuming and uncomfortable as fuck but better than having boobs. Better than being stared at. In the end, my body had changed too much and I had to learn to except it. To this day, I notice friends, co-workers, and strangers staring at my boobs while I talk, giving me the up-and-down. I know all you women know what I’m talking about. Men glance from eyes to boobs then back up to eyes multiple times and they think we don’t notice. 21
I do enjoy having boobs now, but every time I get that up-and-down look, it shoots me back to that same exact feeling I had as an uncomfortable 11 year old girl. But I’m not a child anymore, I’m a grown ass woman with a strong voice.
22