You gave me some more words, because I have none of my own.
I don’t even want to have words on my own. Why?
Because I always just liked to listen to everything.
But I came here to say, that I am the Parasyte.
And why is that? Because I have a penis.
The audience is shocked
But I am not proud of it.
The audience is confused
You know why? Because it just doesn’t feel right.
Because it always felt like it doesn’t belong to me.
I often just felt my rim or bottom or how it is called, as if there was nothing on it. Only to realize that there was this thing. Or things.
And while I used it, like most or all boys and men do, I sometimes just felt guilty.
And you or some of you once asked me, whether I know how a woman’s period feels like. Or at least something like this.
The thing is, a man should say, I have no idea. And since I am a man, I should say that. But given that my words are your words, I can speak for you. And if not, then you have to stop me because I am your tool after all.
The period of a woman feels like dying.
At least this is what a young girl would say, when she gets it the first time.
And why is it that it feels like dying? Because it means that you are dying. Or that you started to die. And these days even girls still going to elementary school might get it already. I have no current data about it, since I actually don’t know much. Because I am just a human like you…
But it is scary, you must say.
And the thing about the genitals in general is scary.
The whole part with the openings of our bodies.
It is scary… scary as hell.
People: But this is normal.
Me: But not for me.
When I think about it, I just see a mouth for talking.
At least I hope I see one.
And I see eyes which look into mine.
But instead I am here, trapped in this man body.
And I have more words, but they must wait for later.
I got something I have to read.
Please think about it and tell me what you think.
But I know you won’t answer me.
And I know that I want you to stab me. To hit me in the face.
And I would smile.
And then I would say: “We can be friends. Just friends.”
And then you kill me. Because this is what my purpose is.
But then you say: No, not today.
And I cry down there on the floor because I would be still in pain.
But then you would tell me, that everything will be alright.
But I don’t believe it because I couldn’t really believe a thing for sure. I believed everything and then nothing and sometimes something.
But I felt dead. And then you wouldn’t let me die. And I would say: “Thank you.”
Because I would know, that it finally is over. This war of ages. This war of age. Aging, death and madness.
But this is not the time nor day and yet I stay. I pray.
And I am dying. Please punch me. Because this is what man, made you say.
And now I say it. Because I can’t stand this madness much longer.
And if I feel it, I can’t imagine how you must feel.
My honest respect. I fooled myself and you helped me do it.
Or whatever happened. I want to be the fool, but someone made me think like a man. Someone told me that I am a man. And somehow I had to be a man. But wouldn’t I be John or Peter, why not Johanna or Petra? Why not Alair Alyda, why not?
Or just call me a number. Call me 41, like the age of my mother, when I was born. Call me 22 after the years I am here. Call me 4 because 2+2 are four. Call me 11 because 22 divided is 11.
Call me number 5 lives. Call me Sam. I don’t care. Just call me and tell me it is over. But you won’t come because I am the one who has to die. Right?
And what did someone say about hiding the truth?
The best place to hide a secret, is in plain sight. Because noone would expect it this way?
Or something like that.
And usually the best inventions were made by women. Even the devices we use today were made possible because of women. One way or another.