Found (or, I struggle with Prompts but Attempt to Make it Work)
                                        experiment for Rachel K.

If he stood still long enough my body would find his.  Instead, he is the type to assemble in different locations throught the club.  Surrounding himself with various men whose names he never really commits to memory.  Because he can't care enough to attach things to strangers.  He has spent his entire life attaching every memory, pained and indifferent, to those he knew.  So he is exhausted.  He is twenty-seven and can not attach another piece of his history to his future.
Picture by Mimi Parent taken from 'Surrealist Women: An International Anthology' by Penelope Rosemont
I am exposed this morning.  My pubic hair has grown too long.  My vagina is hidden.  But I still feel exposed.  My left breast sizes behind the right breast.  My thighs sore from clinging to his body as he cursed his way into me.  I want to masturbate but he will think it means he was not enough.  He will think it means I am angry.
I'm not sure why my pleasure always depends on him.
"Do you think his death could mean something?"
"That he was unhappy.  It isn't death."
"What isn't death?"
"He killed himself."
"It's still death, mother."
"It's something else. Something extraordinary."
She doesn't clarify extraordinary.  I'm not sure if she approves or disapproves.  But, suddenly, my mother is someone else.
I fucked her because of the way she was dressd.  Because she was dressed like she wanted to be fucked.  If I didn't fuck her she'd have cried when I left her empty.  She would have stopped eating for a week.  She would have pulled and picked at her body.  After I fuck her, she does the same routine, but she is happier.
I stare at the canvas.  There are pieces missing.  I don't know how I decide a piece is finished.  What do I use as judgment?  I think my brush strokes are too hard.  Like I'm forcing paint into art.  Like I'm pressing that thin line between a living room wall and a Rothko right off of the canvas.
My wife hates my paintings.  She can't have them hanging in the house.  She loves that I am an artist but hates my art.  I don't know how one distinguishes between the artist and their art.
Last night, I slipped under the covers and laid against his bare thigh.  I purred at his warmth but he slept through it.
I shit behind the couch because he hasn't cleaned the box out for two weeks.
I curled into myself on the windowsill. The sun is warmer than his thigh.  And the neighbor kids like to spot me there.  They point and giggle.  They've given me a second name, "Chester".
At night, I roost on the refrigerator.  It hums and I purr.  Like it and I are of the same breed.
"Have you written much lately?" Andrea asks.
"Not enough energy?"
"Not enough control."
"What do you mean?"
"I have found voices, but none of them my own."
Matt Williams