Disarming

Cathy is here.

Cathy is searching beyond her ache, distressing. Through
herself.
Her hands are bleeding.
Cathy's garbage is rotten, as germinating. It is abandoning her box.
It is not her box. But she has the box, stolen. Her mind is
remembering, unforgotten. She is shrouding her reasons. They are
foreigners where she is leaving, off. She is failing. Again.
Again.
Cathy is crying. Her cheeks are arid. She is not watering her pain,
borrowed. She is losing her feelings. They are not. For her,
gone.
As hoisting. Her hoarse hoarfrost is hobbling.
Cathy can stand. She is sizzling her drowsiness, away. It is
singed.
She was slashing her thighs. They had thorns. Big needles were wishing
to penetrate, inside. She closed her legs: they were sprawling her
thirst; ending was coming close.
Closer and closer.
She was dismounted.
The knife was clammy. It was alien. And it is her blood it is
shredding. It is hungry.
About her.
From her.
For her.
By her.
She was running to catch its decline. It was taking off. She
paralyzed, it. She nailed her thrilled flesh, decollated.
A red gauntlet is mending her plucking hand. Limp.
Her execution.
She is splicing her tiny partners, together. She is a scaly column of
old unmeasured whippings, sweltering her being. She is blaring them,
on. A forlorn residence. It is squirming it, shapeless. She.
The kitchen sink was empty. She was looking into.
For herself.
She was not desisted. Her agony was needing. Holes. She stole a
reward. And she did not deserve, it. Her holes were sprinkling her
water. Enervation. Her water was thick. She was floating, down.
The cupboards were far, many. They were over her heads, two. Many maps.
One frontier, herself.
And the shelf, nearer. She is swerving it. Brusquely.
Behind.
She was free. From them. When caressing her inflated skin, venom. She
was infected among her legs. Her thighs were chilly. Fire, off. The
knife was muffling her excavation. Unflinching, her.
In front.
Her paws were reaching, convulsive. They had opened them. Doors, many.
They were hanging on her back. There were nothings. Any. But her hands,
naked. Touching.
Falling. Without, resistance. A hoard, disremembered.
Cathy was bearing her disaster, dislocated. She was holding the knife.
Protection. Her flesh was torn.
She stumbled, herself. She was bumping the mug, into. It was rolling
around. Her toes, nine. They are visible where its cleaved cotton. It
is damp: red bubbles are boiling.
Her perfume.
Her odor was melting the walls, away. Distribution. Her walls were hot
snow. They were waiting.
Cathy is unzipped.
Unfinishing, her.
She was blurring her mindfulness. Fascination. It was interrupted,
assuaged.
Cathy is staring her anger, at. She was consumed. And diminishing,
lessened. She is small.
Hailing. Howl. Howls. Her howls.
Cathy has drained her skin. In exile. She is repairing her cold bones.
Spilling blood, hers. It is rusty. And sodden.
Vertigo.
Her feet are squealing, high-pitched. She is skating her projection,
over. Piercing. She is in disguise. Her skin is a clotted extension of
small ramifications from a deep obscure disfigured universe where she
is dying, as departing: she is barren.
Cathy is extending her shadow, against. Crumbs. She is deplored. Her
treads are screeching the floor, slippery. She is pushing, it. With
her.
She is drenching, golden. From her legs, inside. Perturbation. It is
insisted on staying, near.
"Try to catch me, bastard!"
Cathy was running through the corridor. In drag. It is not her body the
character who is dispelling.
But I'm alone.
It is her voice. Low. She is displeased.
I'm with me.
Observing.
Here.
Cathy is licking a knife. It is soiled. It was vomiting blood.
Absence. Her veins are timid. They are relinquishing her crooked
shape.
"I'm coming off."
Decomposition.
"Could you disconnect me?"
Cathy is vulnerable.
"I'm deaf!"
She is docking her anxiety. Gaudy detriment, without.
"Why are you so silent for me?"
Separation.
"I'm needing your answer."
Diarrhoea.
Cathy is divulging her mediocrity. Through her demented breeze. As
whirling, up. She is ejected.
Unaware, of. Herself. Where, she is.
Cathy is nude.
She is shifting her volume, spoiled. Hanging around. Down the roof,
her feet. She is climbing her decadence. Off.
Her teeth are quickly. But unprotected. They are inspiring her
disunity.
She is flinging her bitter scraps. Herself. The last ones. She is
sloshing the carpet, around. Her throbs are drooping her feeble
anatomy. Docile.
Tossing, herself.
She is swallowing her red hassock, up. Slowly. Her mouth is full. She
is outside; no space left to be. For her. It is still. Trying to arrive
her awkward stomach, into. It is astonished by its guest: an uninvited
visit. A new owner: a crowded heap of orders; unordered, yet. But soon.
Disinclination. Very soon.
Obstruction. She is choked: her gushing duct. It is shrieking.
In alarm. Her grotty sweetness is fading, away. It is scared.
Cathy is an unintentional yield she produced. A lowering lucidity. And
she lacks of. Herself.
"Why am I still in a hurry?"
She is solacing her growing grooves. Expansion.
"Is it mine?"
A grouching incontinence is swinging her wire fence, from. She is
groping herself, for. But she is her muddled uncertainty.
This decision. I'm tasting an alienated reflection from myself.
An encounter. Without herself.
"Where I ain't peacefully noticed."
In her silence.
But for me.
Demolishing, herself.
And with me. From here.
Her reliance is ingested. An underfed curiosity.
"I ain't arriving there."
Cathy's token is expensive: because she is. Still. In her quietness,
unmeasured.
Dimness.
"Please, don't give up on me!"
She is carrying sand in her shoes. They are uncolored.
Cathy is smelling her corpse's breathing, sour.
Her sand is full of nibbles. From others.
"Never!"
Her awe cannot bite. It is mutilated.
"Never? Is it too soon?"
Her drawings are dewing her fragility, through the walls. They are
mute. A thread is pulling from them, inflated. Of a desire.
"Never? Isn't it too late for you when being herself in me?"
She is twisting her defecated dread. After exhorting, herself. With
It.
The sewer. One. Hers.
"Have you ever?"
Cathy's uselessness is mortifying her incapacity to be. Herself.
For something.
"I ain't being. I know myself."
Cathy is beginning. To find: seeing her eyes, through. By herself. She
is imploring to be. Herself, in.
By themselves; where she is; but without her. Only being.
Always.
She was crouching, down. She disengaged her legs, frozen. She was
patient: she was not hastening her; it is herself.
Fear: she does.
She was contracting her box. It is, for her. It is blank.
Relief. Her rage is stopping, off.
Her pooh is brown. She is contemplating it. Under her. She is not.
With. Her urine is spurting, over. She was irrigating it. There is a
puddle. Her feet, on. Her lumps are uprooted: among themselves.
Disorientation. She is scuttling them; herself.
Cathy is a castaway.
She is peeping, out. Into her brown leavings. She is not meeting with
a face, of her own. She is picking her, up. It is hers. But it is not
her. That.
This.
She is removing her copy, aside.
Under her brown dregs. Nothing. She is touching her brown dregs, more
and more. Nothing. But more brown dregs. There is not her face: through
her eyes; they are absorbing her. With them.
Cathy is spouting scum; a lot. Everywhere, around. And it is reeking
her groggy presence when she is hashing herself. In a gross pile of
legitimate dirtiness, herself.
Being is hampering her return: a frustrated reconciliation. She is
inside, herself. There is no place. For her.
Her electricity.
"Now, I do."
Cathy is a pet. Her gift.
Nobody's.
Hemorrhage.
Her rebuffed portions are sheering her, off.
Cathy muffed her insults: her forehead is labeled. Her name.
She is. This angry sad peevish surly girl. A pretty small girl. A
creature.
Her gritty creature.
Cathy is defective.
She was sleeping in her ruined slaughterhouse: her matrix. It was
retching her blood. And life and death were, too. She was omitting her.
For them. In herself. She was cloaking submissive dependence.
Cathy's matted hair is shuffling violence. Her violence, unchecked.
She is a nest for brazen louses; hers. Her stench is perking them, up.
Her mess, grazed. They are huddling together: themselves; by her. They
are brawling against, her. They were not shy. She is. They were not
coward. She is.
They are winning.
Her.
Cathy is playing her life, a blunder. By her. She is skinning it. She
is the object of her hatred. She is her failure. She is her load,
rising. Upwards. Her harmonica is soundless: in her process of being.
Inhaling. In. Into. Inside. Exhaling. Out. Outside. She is a bungled
invasion. She is restoring, it. Herself.
But Cathy is surrendering, her death. By herself.
When she is repelling herself.
Away.

Cathy is telling lies.
Her true lies. These.