from the Unlovable

Shiv Kotecha



This is mostly a story about you.

I made you. That’s right. I made you. I made
every single part of you. Your finger-
-nails, your hair, your sweat, the color red. The
dick that fell out of your pussy for the
first time, yeah, that’s right. I made that dick. I
made it fall out. And I made all of the
little bumps and the veins along the thin
wadding of it rise and fall, up and down,
all over, wet green to belled head every
time you found yourself hard and alone, if
only to remind you that you are not.

Yes. And no. Exactly. To remind you
that you’ve never really been. Yep. I’ve been
around this whole time. And now, now you know.
That it was me. That I made you. Which means
that I made all of your bitty parts too.
All the parts you’ve ever picked at, or rubbed
at, or tried to cover up. Your eyes, their
lids. The flakes you chewed off the nip that fed
you I made that too. I made the milk you
suckled down and the soft tissue you gnawed
at and the livid purple scars you left
behind. It is all me. I did all of
it. I made all of your hard nipples go
soft right when you thought you were really read-
-y for it. I made your back curl forward.
I made you overheat and then drool and
then pant. I made your ears point back and your
guts growl and your jaw go stiff every time
you went in for a kill. It was me. I
did it. I made all the things. I made your
face. And I made your bones. And I made your
tail. And I made you purr and I made you
chant and I made you sing and I made you
bark and I made you spin around in cir-
-cles and put stuff on your head and light fi-
-res and jump up and down and hold hands and
I made your beady eyeballs roll all the
way back into your tiny little head
and your mouth crack and squeal with joy as you
did it. I made all of it. The air you
breathe, the tasteless film of saliva that
keeps your tongue from ever touching the curve
of your cock, the buds back there that taste. Eve-
-rything that’s ever gotten hard or soft
in there, everything that’s melted or popped
or gone bad, everything that’s made you sweat
and then tear and then gag, all of the things.
All of the things you did or did not want
to go into or to come out of that
mouth, but at some point in your life, despite
you knowing it, definitely did. No—

—Yes. I made it do it. Do you under-
-stand. I made it all. And any time an-
-y of it moved, even if slightly, it
was me. I did it. All the tiny pores
on that soggy little mouth of yours: an-
-y time any one of those pores made the
move to open or close, because of a
brief but sudden shift in temperature, or
because you were, at some point or anoth-
-er, sucked into a fever dream of fright
or pleasure so gross that your body star-
-ted to give way, from the surface in—sha
-llow pools of sweat rising across the sur-
-face of that skin so uniformly that
you react in a spasm of body
to shape, forcing yourself into any
absurd feat of pose that could cease that split
of skin all together, say, by fully
extending your right toe or filling the
inch off the floor with the nape of the head
or fitting the foot of the bed flush be-
-hind the scruff of the pit or stretching your
arm away from the shoulder and against
the wall to show its vein or rashing the
fronts of the foot pink while the palms sting on
white or shoving the first finger behind
the knee and the other in front of the
knee or placing a thumb as far away
from the rest of the hand as the arch is
from the heel and then tugging the hair back
while licking at it or ridging the back
above the neck, head, arm, ball, and leg so
that your eyes and your nose are flush with the
back of the taint or, once and for all, put-
-ting all your weight down on that toe so as
to forget about the rest of it, to
stop any other movement and willful-
-ly con yourself into the curious,
before your body gives way entire-
-ly—each and every one of those times that
any part of that mesh of craters you
call skin was somehow compelled to inter-
-fere as the final impresser of all
other emanations, that’s right. It was
me. I made it do it. And here I am.

I’m here.
Do you see me.
You do don’t you.
I’m right here, buddy.
I’m back.

You understand what is happening now
don’t you. Or did you forget about this
part. Or did you think that I would just simp-
-ly not return. That I was done, ov-
-er it, not coming back, not ever. Or,
that maybe, after all this time that has
passed, my form as you’ve come to see it
—a pit of turbulence made constant, the
build and the shape of mute and total un-
-derstanding—was just, in fact, going to
stay that way forever, paused, statua-
-ry—so that even an errant detail
of my shape—the tilt of these arms of mine,
say, that fall so restfully onto my
other bigger and stronger set of arms,
that, then, fall onto another set of
even bigger and stronger arms—is so
crude an impossibility of shape
to you that I could not, not possibly,
be anything more than yet another
croak in the void, a fancy twist of im-
-agination, another sick joke so
untamable by eons of wit or
matter that it would be delusional
to think that if I ever did, in fact,
actually exist, that there’d be no chance,
no way, that I might—even still, even
now, even today—swing my foot down there—
where you are now, just an inch further down
than it currently is, so as to send
you a little reminder of my being
in the first place, say, by crushing you with
the sheer weight of my great and big blue toe.

I don’t blame you for thinking that. That’s not
your fault. It’s my fault. I did it. That’s right.
Look at me. You know who I am, don’t you.

I’m Shiva.
That’s what I said.
I’m Shiva.
You were right.
Here I am.
Lord Shiva.
God of Destruction!

That’s who I am. Who are you. You are not.
This much is definitely clear. I am
Shiva and you are not. And at any
moment that I choose to, you know what I
do don’t you. I end it all. That’s right. Des-
-troyed. Game over. Kaput. It’s been a long
enough time, this time, don’t you think, much too
long for anyone or anything to
be so completely out of sight, so com-
-pletely silent. Saying, doing nothing.
A few billion years have passed right along
and here I’ve been, up here all by myself,
still and quiet in my cave of rock and
ice, snakes coiling up and around my big
and blue body, rippling across my legs
and my arms, making sure I stay just as
cool and just as dozed as I was in that
one moment when I first sat myself down
here, in this little spot of mine—Oh, how
good I felt in that moment that I stopped
doing anything at all, stopped thinking
about any of you as I turned to
sit—the only time I have ever felt
anything—anything good at all—the
total submission of my body and
my mind. No—but yes. Yes, and then more. Cold-
-ness, making its way everywhere, all a-
-round and into my butt. No—Yes. Indeed.
My big and blue butt, leaning as it sat down,
heavily, against the cold wet surface
of the icy rock. Coldness itself. Mak-
-ing its own way through the fur and onto
the flesh—making its way across the vast
upper ridge of the butt, pocked and shining,
as it went to sit—turning, as it sat,
bluer and bluer—the whole butt turning
a bright ass-blue—as if the butt were, as
it sat, getting smacked silly, over and
over and over again—even if
all it was doing was stopping to sit
down, over and across a span of cent-
-uries, depressing all of history
under its weight as it fell, snug, into
its seat—the seat itself making way for
the butt to come and to fall into it.
The ass shaping the seat into a cup.
The seat cupping right up to the ass. The
eyes rolling back, aflutter, and the knees
folding, and heels of the feet waddling
out a bit, up in front, as the butt surr-
-enders, finally, into the cozy
numbness of sitting. This butt of mine, Shiv-
-a’s butt, the first part of my raging, beau-
-tiful bod to fully extend into
the blue, excusing itself from the rest
of my body and then from the world it-
-self, for just a moment, before the whole
body gives in and cold crawls up from the
hole in that ass to the annals of the
head and around and over to the lids
of the eyes; the face and the mouth then be-
-coming just like the butt and the hole—be-
-reft of any need or reason to o-
-pen up to any kind of sense—my whole
body gone into its seat, cold and numb
and deaf to any stupid little want,
a body with nothing to covet, noth-
-ing strong enough anywhere to get it
to flare up and out of its seat, say, so
as to appear before you, like a king.
And, like an animal, tear the skin off
of your face with its big blue hands and guz-
-zle you down. Nothing—Yes.


Shiv Kotecha is a writer, artist, and scholar living in New York. He is the author of EXTRIGUE (Make Now, 2015) and others. Looking for Richard was his first solo show (Ginerva Gambino, Cologne). the Unlovable, a long poem, will soon be out on TROLL THREAD. He is a PhD candidate in the English Department at NYU.