Sometimes I go to the
house at the end of the street and sit there for hours, picking at the
wallpaper. It flecks off piece by piece and no one knows that I’m the reason
why the house looks like that. No one believes that I could have done it. I
make tears big enough to walk through. I have no need for them, but I hold them
up to the light and watch them flake away from themselves. Weathering around
the beams. Soon this will all be nothing but a skeletal structure. A picture of
a lifetime.
The finest thing you have ever seen.
I draw a match to my tiny hairs. I glow in the light,
for as long as I can bare it. I couldn’t tell you what’s changed. I couldn’t
tell you why instinct says was, instead of is. Why I won’t be beautiful anymore
when I’m all glacial and melting. When
it misses me. When it comes back to me. It waits in its comfortable
silence to see how I will react because it doesn’t want me to be afraid. But I
am afraid. And there is nothing you can do to change that.
My
old friend.
I was divine, and I was flickering in the sunlight and
peering between the hedges, but I wasn’t quite worth the trouble. All that
trouble, dancing on the powerlines. Rippling earthquakes calling liberty.
Implying that something is interesting when it isn’t. I am interesting, but I
am also tearing paper. The rough edges. The burnt bits. The sound that a bird
makes when it collides with a window and you think its kind of funny, because
you know it
incomprehensibly
and sad.
You don’t want to deal with it. You don’t deserve it.
You do, but you don't want to deal with it. You will. You always do. It is the
only thing to be done. Admit it. Act like you don’t want to admit it but admit
it. Look at the landscape of your body and watch the earthquakes as they crack.
Think of how you can stop at nothing. Know nothing. Be nothing. Feel nothing.
Feel everything, everything escaping you. Name them. The unrelenting. I want to
sink my hand into my sanded chest and red.
Beading.
Notice the air around it. Feel as the blood pools and
pops through the skin and fingertips. My shoes slushing beneath my feet. Just
seeing through the world that divides us. I am visceral. Skin and bones and ground
breaking, all together never truly there. Let me go. Let the glass fall as it
may. Each shard to be left alone. Time frozen, and melting
away.
And if this is how the world does see fit to punish me
for my transgressions, then so be it. I will pull my heart from the brown sugar, so it knows it is my most
prized possession. It is all I have. It is what I have always chosen to
save. But all it knows is that it possesses me. It does not fall for my
fabrications. Beautiful disillusionments. Hand crafted in archives of
downfalls. It is too good for me. It doesn’t deserve me.
Me.
Abandon all which festers within us, that which erodes
at the salty granite, in the mist of denial. It knows that it will kill us
both. It hopes to eventually. But for now, it has no interest, it is of the
divine,
it
concerns itself not with the opinions of sheep.
You shouldn’t mind that my skin got burned. It has
always believed in pain. That which waits with you. Keeps you company. It
doesn’t leave. It will put aside a quite eternity to speaks with you. It says,
you have lived. It does not say whether or not it was worth it. I am glad for
this.
It
is glad for me.
Having grown tired of seeing my waxen wings melting in
the light. Bathing worlds in imposter liquid. I am not that sort of person it
says. I am not any sort of person, or of any kind of understanding. I am the zero
one one codes that have amounted
to
all of this.
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