What Rhymes with Shank?

December 28, 2015

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I love words.

Louis CK does a bit about how we cheapen language. We truly do.

“How will you describe the birth of your child when you have already wasted the word awesome on a fucking sandwich?”


Once upon a time I had a nemesis in the form of sister-wife.

I woke up laughing one morning and retracted her title.

She wasn’t worthy. She was a gnat flying by my ear. People only have as much power as we give them, I have all, she has none.

I wanted to call her a succubus, but that would insult my fellow succubae. We who eat sex and use it to heal ourselves and others.

Parasite. Aye, that. She has a mental illness that makes her unable to form any semblance of self. She was born without a soul. So she steals/cheats/lies her way into other people’s skin and lives. Feeding off the host until the host packs up and leaves.

I called her a leptictidium once. Latin for ‘delicate weasel’. Usurper too.

Apparently when I get mad, I bludgeon people with my thesaurus.

I love monsters.

I do.

One of them is misconstruing the moniker.

He calls me humminbird. He sees my wings.

He is my Keeper.

He has taken abuse meant for me.

A girl made the mistake of asking me if I had a problem with her when my rage building. I do. I did. It’s over now.

She has a small mind and a big mouth. She spits words she doesn’t understand and has no rights to. She was warned.

I can’t call it a fight any more than I could call sister-wife a nemesis with a straight face. It wasn’t a fight. No conflict worth having ends with someone whinging the words “Why are you talking to me like I am little?”

“Because you FUCKING ARE.”

Words are powerful things. Once upon a time a faggot was a bundle of sticks. Now it is a word that causes death. It is designed to cut and tear at someone for varying reasons, none of which have merit to me. I won’t call it a knife, I know my pen is mightier than my sword. Words cut and leave jagged wounds that won’t heal. Like that one, which when I struggle to describe it, is a dirty prison shank.

What rhymes with shank?

My Keeper and I had tried to reach in and help this girl. I use that word with remorse. She shames my gender and profession by existing. Skank, the answer is skank. That word always made me think of clearing your throat with the intention of spitting out the yuck you find there. She is the yuck.

There are those with soul and love and light, there are those that protect us from the others.

Low men and women. Labeled as monsters. Nay nay. These creatures that draw breath and commit atrocities are a different breed of thing. Meat puppets without a shred of humanity. The lord is their shepherd but these sheep have teeth and claws. No soul, no light and no mind.

Sometimes fire must be fought with fire.

Sometimes we need the good monsters to fight the bad. Cull the herd.

Take a life to save a thousand. Cut out cancer for the greater good, even if the cancer is a skinny blonde white girl.

“She’s gone from one to be protected to one to protect others from.”

Yes sweetheart.

She showed her yellow sash when she hit you to get to me. When she thought hurting those who had her best interests at heart was a thing she ought to be doing.

He got in between us, my monster did and took the force of the blow. Human shield, but more than human.

He had to, if she’d hit me…I cannot imagine what he would’ve done. I’ve seen what he does to those who put their hands on me with ill intent.

He would never hit a woman, this I know…but I’ll say it again, she was no woman at that point. Just a spastic, flailing skin sac full of drink and drugs, lashing out spewing poison from a mealy mouth. Drowning and ready to take us with her into the depths. Oh honey, I can fight underwater. I prefer it actually.

I call him my monster, but there is no leash here. He stands with me of his own free will. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and its bliss. We recognized each other immediately. We both fight for light, just in different ways, he hurts when he has to so I can heal when I can.

We tried to pull this girl out a hell of her own making, she pulled the curtains and locked the door.

I tried to explain it to him like this. She is like a cat (a skinny, skanky, dirty, mean ol’ cat) that keeps running back into a burning building finding worse places to hide. Somehow avoiding the flames and making sure you get burned. Then I have to run into the flames to get him out. Stop now. I am out of balm.

Fucking little twatling.

The addition of ‘ling’ to any word denotes affection. I’ve none left for her, but it’s funnier this way. It also implies inconsequential and aye, that she is.

I say it the way southern women say “bless her heart”. A beautiful fuck you.

A Scorpio will ignore you so hard you will begin to question your own existence. I am not a Scorpio, I am not of their tribe, but I love them I am their ambassador and interpreter and they have shown me their secrets.

I realize by writing this I’m breathing life into these two low women. Whatever immortality I give them with my words will be squandered so I am not worried.

The worst thing you can do to someone you cared about is … nothing.

My ghosts taught me this. Thanks guys.

With this last tap of the keyboard. She’s on her own.








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