Invoke the three ways. One of nurturing slaughter. One of bestial flesh. One of undesigned ephemera. You plant the flower. The flower grows. You pick the flower. The flower dies. You hang it just to kill it twice. Then smell decay and proclaim it. Tinctures transform pain. So ball it into a fire, you qveen. Rays of light emit from your chest that sliver away dysmorphia. Cutlets fall to the dirt. Let it burn and bury it in three days.
Burn it and bury it.
Don't touch my meat.
Don't touch my sack.
Not everyone is born with the right body. I am genetic scraps my ancestors left in dirt. Ancient fog tell me my way. Humans in their luxsuits. Designer rich bodies. Sentient fog worships the clouds the sun the lakes the rivers the puddle water at my disgusting human feet.
My body comes from goat. The goat who slices the necks of my enemies. Ask the ancient one. She knows. Secret sigils kept from family. Electric crests course through the water in my veins.
Until then I exist in space. I am the fucking qveen. Ask me any questions and you'll get stardust. Burn you with the words of a thousand suns. Blackened lips from all the flames I spit. Kiss me and you'll taste soot. You'll taste stars. You'll taste a thousand regrets from the universe for making me this drab human. You'll regret not giving me my real form.