Creative Nonfiction by Halle Segal
By Halle t. Segal
They
say that sex is an energy exchange and to be cautious (careful) when sharing
(consuming) each other,
It
takes a toll, they say,
And
it shouldn’t be random, not just anyone is deserving of access to you (it)
Don’t
let everyone eat (lick) (steal) your insides like that
He was smart and capable and didn’t belong to me and he tasted like fried privilege and power maybe I’m the alien, I stole you (devoured) and made you mine (inside)
They say that sex is sacred and that octopus live at the bottom of the ocean, deep in the barrels beyond access (I can’t get to you) yet somehow you wound up being delivered with hands (acrylic) on a plate (ceramic) and you fell deep (deep) down into the barrels of my baby belly (baby) (I couldn’t survive 10 minutes in that deep dark cave you were born) (mother) (daughter) (husband) (son) like psychological indigestion, I can’t get you down I can’t find you.
They say that everything in life is a trade off and that when you gain one thing you lose another.
I
traded your life for my own, my octopus helper, and it was too much, I am too
full, I stole your energy (robbed) and took on the anger of the sea and the
sadness of the grieving mother, now I can’t get you down, I can’t find you
They say that it is more honorable to finish what you have started. How could I leave you there for scraps, somebody’s baby ending up cold and leaking on the bottom of a New York City dumpster in exchange for $20 and a gin martini, maybe I’m the alien.
The people say that they are spiritual but not religious. I say that it is all one and the same, that it is all life and death and God or no God. They talk about the universe and about energy, how random and fragile it is to have wound up here with God (or no God) and that we are all one and the same, and then I killed my octopus helper.
The vegans are preaching that if reincarnation is real then the worst of us end up as dairy cows, most of our (their) (our) lives spent stacked on top of each other in their (our) own piss and shit, skin and bone, only fed to be killed and artificially force fucked over and over again to make baby cows (veal) for anyone to buy at the local grocery store in sweaty wrap (plastic) with human hands (acrylic), maybe I’m the baby
The people fuck sparingly or constantly, with caution or with destruction, Mom taught me that it’s an energy exchange, and then I fucked my octopus helper.
We bury each other and say prayers over the dirt and return with flowers (or rocks) to say hello again. The Jews say the mourner’s Kaddish, the prayer for death, and the Christians kneel (begging) for Jesus to greet You in Heaven. The octopus mother floats on alone in the Black Sea.
My baby is deep in the barrels of the ocean and deep in the wasteland of my belly, and I can’t get you down, I can’t find you.
Many years ago My Mom hugged me so tight that everything else in the world disappeared, I grew weightless in an endless Black Sea of sky
There
were stars
A
familiar smell
And nothing else
-
Halle t. Segal grew up outside of Philadelphia and moved to New York City from
Vermont where she received a Bachelor of Arts degree in English writing. Halle
has been published in three zines: The Gist, The Living Room Zine, and Phase
Zero Zine. She writes poetry and mini-prose pieces celebrating small moments,
and is deeply fascinated with the mundane expressing itself as surreal. Halle
enjoys road trips, film photography, wild animals, and the color purple.