When a woman inhabits the costume of a monster, does she become a monster? As if her innards become a dress she wears, a complicated dress with many prosthetic limbs, the arms and legs of the children she had or didn’t have, the tails of all the serpents she has swallowed, all the fingers she needs to play all the instruments of herself. When all of this is on view, she no longer looks tidy. She can’t keep her knees neatly together on the chair, she can’t nip nimbly up the stairs in her tight skirt, her perfect ass alluring but under control. Untouchable in this magnificence, she rolls and flows, cries out for recognition, tumbles down the steps of all your official buildings.
She sees with her fingers, her toes, her arms, her legs, her nose, her intestines, her ovaries, her bowels, her fallopian tubes, her uterus, her vagina, her liver, her kidneys, her brain, her nerves. There is nothing about her that is blind. More powerful than the basilisk, all-seeing Azrael, she moves towards us bearing her multiple truths. Those wings, sprouting behind her, will carry her far beyond our reach.