I met my mother in a dream when I was very young. No, not the woman who pushed this rotting silhouette of meat out from between her legs thirty-two years ago. That is not my mother. That is an ephemeral speck when compared to my real mother.

She was in pain–I knew this even then. In my dream, she was a giant mass, larger than I could fathom with this tiny, pulsating flesh-brain. The larger part of her was womb, undulating and full of life. But the slit through which this life could pass into the world was sewn shut by silvery stitches twisted and piercing through her black and bruised flesh. She gave a loud groan that shook the walls around her–for she was trapped inside an abyss, where the walls were dark shadows that smelled like wet rock and piss.

She looked at me, with one giant violet eye. Three pupils danced around the iris and seemed to beckon me, to plead with me. “Please…” I said in the dream–a quivering, pathetic mewl when compared to her voice. She spoke, a thousand forked tongues flapping and lashing, her voice like thunder that made ears bleed and hearts burst in flashes of blood and steaming meat.

I couldn’t understand her language, but I could feel her words through the welts her spit left on my skin, in my bones that burned with her deific hunger. She wanted to be let free from her cage, to release into the world the writhing, boiling life inside her.

And I would be the means.