Epileptic
I feel the thud of a thousand thunders
I do not hear.
A split second.
The tree is burning through its roots.
Sulfurous tangle of white thorns
impressed on my lids.
Then the subtle twitch of limbs.
Such trivialities do not excite me.
I am used to dying,
and waking up – a new woman,
with no name, no past,
only the taste of blood in my mouth.
Sometimes I think I know her –
this other woman.
Sometimes she speaks
and sounds like me.
Sometimes I scream
and nothing comes out.
Sometimes the pain makes me cry for days.
But mostly,
I feel nothing.
I am empty and translucent,
my skin shimmers with nuclear radiance.
I am full of explosions,
I think
there’s a celebration in my brain.
I can feel millions of nerve cells
flicker inside me like Christmas lights.
Well then,
I’ll decorate the walls with garlands.
I’m truly ecstatic –
an eggshell, ready to crack from within.
Look at this peeling skin-wrap.
Isn’t it lovely?
This is my gift to myself.
I am no more a person
than the vase that holds the dead rose.
Each time I fall
they stick me up with gold.
I am beautiful and intricate.
I smile in my death-wrap –
my last breath caught in this shiny cellophane.
I am both ancient and brand-new.
I know I scare you,
I know you want to see the show.
Watch as I make time disappear.
It’s a simple trick.
It only takes a flash.
I’ve done this before.
I am untouchable.
I’ve died more times in a night
than the Magician’s wife.
I exist between worlds.
I burn,
and each time I return,
electrified.
Body-Sieve
I haven’t had a meal since last year.
This sickness going on for weeks –
it’s only tea, and baby food,
and the taste of blood in my mouth.
I am learning to eat all over again.
I am empty and pure.
Some girls
would die for this.
I’d die for clear skin and fresh teeth,
my old curls I used to hate.
I reek of decay.
When I look in the mirror
my pomegranate-gums smile back at me.
I pull a red string of slime stuck in my braces.
I spit in the bathroom sink and feel
my mouth fill up again. I watch as blood fills the drain
like I watch the black clots on the paper towel
or down the tiles when I shower.
Sterile-white.
Cold ceramic comforts me.
It’s complete surrender
to the body in pain.
The sight of blood and bile both urgent and raw –
a call to action or acceptance.
I have
exceptionally high pain tolerance.
I am used to bleeding.
I used to bleed on purpose.
I used to want to bleed to death
and I think maybe I still do.
It’s the only way that would make sense,
make dying comprehensible to the self.
Watching as it pours out of you, empties you
of reason, memories, your name.
Nothing enters this body now,
it just goes out.
I am purged of my womanness,
I vegetate,
I photosynthesize.
It’s such a new experience, almost religious.
I’ve never felt this clean before,
so light,
God-like.
How exhilarating, I really do
feel brand new.
I bare my teeth in the mirror,
and I smile
halfway through – it’s the best I can do without pulling
the rest of my stitches.
I feel dizzy.
I spit once more and hear
the washing machine finish its cycle.
I’ll have to wash the sheets again.
ADELA MIROLEVSKA is a PhD candidate in American Culture at Sofia University and a Fulbright visiting scholar at Hunter College, New York, where she researches Sylvia Plath’s work. She is part of the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation for literature and literary translation. Her short stories and translations have appeared in Bulgarian journals, and in 2019 she won the first prize for fiction in the National Poetry and Short Story Competition with her story “White Rabbits.”