on't tell anyone about this." He placed two warm fingers on my vagina and massaged it in a circular motion. I tried not to squeal. It felt like home in the sitcoms I've seen, with Christmas trees and notes on the refrigerator, telling me how much I was appreciated.

He thought he molested me, but even at nine I knew what an orgasm was. Spots of light that were purple and green. Brilliant rainbows, compared to the placid white and yellow of my parents' house.

Now I cannot curb my appetite. I long to stuff ginger hair into my nose in the hope of smelling an apple. I crave to squeeze a man's forearm, until his veins crack and I can lick the blood that seeps down his hand. I need something to fill me up: pickles, spareribs, sometimes poles.

I had a lover who was a silversmith. We fucked everywhere. In a dragon jar, on a rice field near Ilocos. He made me a silver pole with lions embossed on it. The lions had massive manes and saliva dripping down their fangs. He gave me the silver pole as a sign of posterity. He said my grandchildren would always remember me for it.

Everyday I sit in my garden and stare at the pole. The sun casts its rays upon it, producing a white glow of light to blind me. I swoon from the after image of squiggly orange and indigo lines, forming an infant with a melted hip and no legs.

Now I know I won't have grandchildren.

I shout at the sky, "Help me! I don't want the rainbows anymore!"

But chartreuse butterflies fly across my eyes, and gumamelas scatter on my lawn, creating a red velvet shawl. And the lions extract themselves from the silver pole, to devour me.