bionicfemme

Visceral and vicious, I am hot white and tribal and holy. The last myth living in an age of reason searching for the others, not knowing they have been pushed to the ends of the world at the blade of enlightenment. The ones that did not run were hunted and caught behind iron and practicality, and several died when the sun rose and graced their skins.

I cry hands off; there are only broken bones and feathers left, A scrapbook of prophecy. Garden snakes in place of mid-god serpents. CNN in place of sybils.

There are no places left to rest my head and the last few times the hunters trapped me they took a hand, and a foot, and a feather, and a collarbone, and a hymen, and an eye, and an ear, a souvenir for each struggle. One took my voice in a bottle.

A myth turned monstrosity, I panic because I can't find the others. I heard someone broke the last unicorn's horn and someone raped the last siren, someone shot the phoenix in his left wing and someone accidentally caught the mermaid in his tuna net, quickly gutted her to find out what kind of fish she was and threw her back in the sea before anyone could notice. They couldn't take me because I ran, and because I drew blood to tear through the traps.

It is hard to search for the others, when you have only one eye and one ear and one hand and one foot and no feathers and no hymen and no voice.

And if I find the other myths, I don't think they will recognize me after the pillage. I heard of one myth left living far across the mountains that I was too weak to travel to.

And I think the humans of this world have stopped believing in me, yet they still seek a souvenir or two to say they have touched a rarity.