| | afterthought 4: the mirror is my enemy every morning as I am naked vulnerable and stare at this hideous flesh that traps me; I hate my body and maybe it’s just that I’m a girl whose body changes still trying dresses in a shop the blue one in a cubicle I burst into tears feeling so ugly, whatever happened to an older me that never stopped to look never cared nine years old and climbing trees, a dogwood in the yard with white petals pink faded in the center like some Japanese doll the eyes that mock with dark hair and robes in which to hide on a shelf beside the swirling snow globe of a castle with a pony and prince charming, all the fantasies of small girls who grow and change and lose themselves in mindless self-loathing sixteen years old and nothing to live for so stop eating, get thin or die and you win either way; it’s only the flesh that stops you while the mind and soul travel out into worlds of colors unreal and languages without sound these dreams of dreams, please lose myself dammit where is my nivana and why does it keep me waiting just take me to the blackness of spade where there is no one but voices or not even that, the stars and dust of eons and no one to hear you scream or so they say; Bradbury wrote endlessly of Mars and space where calmness sets in among stars and light until you die, why not travel away destination anywhere this ground that tugs at the feet or let me soar into nothingness and dissolve into the atoms that have made this fucked-up world, where is the mind if it isn’t just flesh and blood and tissue not just a functional collection of nerves but an awareness not yet fully explored until someone crucified a man for his love of all and now after centuries where has he gone, people worship him and read passages from books about sin and salvation but is that what he really wanted; the mind is not a soul so where does it all go when you lie there asleep or on a table under the knife trying not to breathe for fear of interrupting that process which keeps you sane, yes bring out the pills the pins and needles I am an experiment see me pretend to be well while you talk in offices take notes and speculate on my life because of some diploma on the wall, how special; what is sanity but a placebo of the senses the definition of normal while the world is suffocating, do something you idiot you scribe scribbling in purple ink people are dying now and still you sit as though the words matter, maybe they do but only to her as she drops tears while the cars and trees keep moving to no answer in the night, air is still and quiet until someone breathes and life begins again and another ends is life still a circle, a line, was Plato correct in that we are slaves to a conspiracy of gods who fool us into this reality this brutal nonexistent magic trick of biology and religion and all the things we pretend to know while the sky has always been blue and maybe that isn’t the point
[ARC]
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Currently Playing: This Type of Thinking Could Do Us In |
| | Posted 3/31/2005 2:19 PM - 1 view - 5 comments
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