I keep having this dream where I let my childhood pet die of negligence. I discover its body locked in a drawer, shrunken and mummified by the years gone by. I wake up and shudder in relief thinking I’d never allow myself to lose something so precious by simple carelessness. Then I think of my year as a mute. Is it true that some things become stronger when starved? He fucks the keyhole and I feel fine. I’m a closed door. My own hands don’t recognize me as I tear my way through the silence. And I feel fine, I feel, god I feel
No one seemed to notice the severed hand lying in the sink. Everyone walked by polishing tiles, pretending the house just needed cleaning. It wasn’t really my fault, though, not having had time enough to spare. When we were kids we would rip caterpillars in two just to see which end would stop moving first. The doorbell rings again. Nobody answers. Mama’s making breakfast. I try to tell her I want a bigger plate, but there just isn’t enough food. Dad tells me most human beings are nice people, but I still ache in the places no one told me I was beautiful. The kitchen counter reeks of decay. I itch the bleeding stump. To grow is a small death, they say. Listen to the noise of the tv, the static praying. Remember the face of your favorite cartoon character. Don’t they, too, seem to smile as you turn your back?
This piece of mine was published today on Free Verse Revolution. ❤
Love to me is
when I said I’d feed off anyone’s hand
and I didn’t mean yours
Some say I love you because I think maybe you wouldn’t want to hurt me
(what a fucking tragedy.)
I couldn’t tell you, but I can feel my skin bleeding marble and buzzing with white noise, I’m cut-off cries and static, a loose-wired run-out girl best suitable for tapping on the shoulder while I puke out my childish love to you, Terminus, guardian of boundaries, sculptor of lines never meant to cross. Look at us, bound in an eternal chase, me trying to stick needles in your back while you try to stay
Wimp antisocial homesickness I confess I’m not making this up bullying I always found it easier to love the wound rather than the person inflicting it anxiety ridiculous fears suffer cheaper existential dread things they only speak of in hell or lower elementary school strange ideas scared of surroundings someone told me they wanted to take me home slit my throat and fuck my corpse OCD moody unstable toxic guilt tripping they say you have to forgive to be whole again In that case I think I am quite fine being half a person completely unpredictable bipolar crazy naive conceited author.
He sits hunched in Buddha position, glossy potbelly fermenting over his belt, tower of beer cans shielding his face from view. His wife fries chicken wings in the kitchen, arms covered in bruises. Grease and drippings flow like honey from the furniture, soggy truths unspoken. The mill grinds steel, sharp flakes sailing trough the air and cutting through anything with a pulse. His children shriek and bow before his hand – the taste of hot iron being pounded into shape. Come and witness at the altar of the White Hyperion; beacon of knowledge and defender of fetal lives, he who likes his eggs runny and doesn’t care for politics because he knows he is already God. The neighbor’s cat never returned. In this kingdom of lechery, anything passes for a meal.
The man running on all fours aside the car as we drove. The twin that only showed up in the mirror at midnight. My friends actually just being jealous. The knotholes in the roof telling stories at night. A woman shooting her kid. That I would never menstruate. Our house burning down. The running man (now falling behind). Being gone forever. The glass pod around my bed shielding me as I slept. The corpse in the ditch. Having the largest breasts in school. The boy from the class above not having slapped my butt in the canteen. The roadside man stumbling and getting crushed by a passing car. Being unafraid. Never having to let go.
As a child, my first word was “why”, although no one understood it back then. It wasn’t for them. “Why” was a human concept, a phantom death, the reason I became what I didn’t believe in. Faith: to design for a mouth that’s never content. To recreate yourself. To never wonder what went wrong in the first place.