In a moment, we feel we signed a lease for a closet to live in for the rest of our lives. And it’s shared. We feel we will feel this way forever, but today I thought of forgetting the concept of “this” body. I could be Raina tomorrow, a name I’ve always liked, Queen Daaa the next day, and maybe a dog the day after. I don’t have to play the role of mopey woman who wears oversized mommy sweaters, hiding under the guise of carelessness but really wanting to pretend her body isn’t there. I sound childish playing pretend, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can free up tomorrow. I’m excited at newness. I’m putting acres all around me. And I’m running all around with my tongue out, drooling, thinking about building and growing many things here. My own farm, you think? Do you feel this way? Because we can play house, a more psychedelic, third-wave feminist version, together.
One flick of your lips, a word,
down my concrete well. Its been
nine months collecting acid rain
water. One look, boulders meet,
a line, a street, where homeless sleep,
My Lungs. Expanding takes soldiers
to pull out. One sweat bead overflow
My belly button pool. Your tongue mining
My Intestines. Your oil, My china.
My concrete well,
You drink from it.
I am crippled by the ghost of a woman I don’t even know. I’d like to be liked. I try her smile. But I can’t dip my fingers into my reflection and I yearn for it to morph into a Yucatan swimming hole. And so I am trapped by an olfactory beauty and tricked into walking into the bars of my old dog mind.
You ever sink in existentialism, frozen by a million indecisions, then fall into cracks of your childhood when someone asks you “How do you like your eggs?” at 5 in the morning? The waiter stood there, clicking her pen. “I’ll come back.” Another plate in Audrey’s spine shifted. She wilted forward as she sat without sitting. Audrey, a vegan hypochondriac, was to her Denny’s chair as a barnacle to a tree. Yet she found a body there. She found she carried a body there, drunkenly, at 5 in the morning.
She stared at her untouched water, swore if she moved a facial muscle her tears like sumo ballerinas will collapse over the restaurant floor. When, when, was the last time she loved until she was swollen? She perpetually reigned on the edge, touching ugliness, but at 5 in the morning she was immersed in it. No appetite, but starved for fullness, wanted to vomit lunch, last week’s dinners, last year, the year before, and before, but, above all, five hours ago.
When Audrey was 8, her aunt bought her a red balloon with a print of Hello Kitty’s face. It had a body and a name. She loved until she was swollen and lighter than it was. But as Aunt Linda birthed it for Audrey for a quarter—although Audrey cried and will never cry publicly again until 20 seconds from now—Aunt Linda killed it too. Popped it. Audrey lost her virginity 5 hours ago and at 5 in the morning she is staring at a milkshake, feeling loss, not the loss of blood, not bruising, but her, Free. Legs spread, skipping short skirt, 8-years-old.
I miss rice. I miss the grains, miniature pillows, rolling on the tongue. I miss how perfectly it lays on a spoon. I miss the sweetness that visits when you’re keen on its arrival. I miss the chewing, the tickling down the esophagus. I miss the cinematic steam that feels like propaganda. I miss the hand submerged in grey water, straight to the deep, swampy, pulling out with beastly carelessness, a mucus glomp from the drain. “Every grain of rice you waste is a piece of shit you eat in heaven”, she said. I miss my mom. I miss her, reader. I miss her chiding “ăn them” eat more and calling me fat after. I miss the horror of her eyes, the constant crinkle between, the grabbing, fingernails, “I’m sorry … I love you, con” and I remember the pupil, arterial contractions like high school photos—and think, I was beautiful. Weakness is retroactively beautiful. If a sky pile of rice graced my plate, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop eating, because she’s comatose, what a funny sounding word, and rice kisses me inside. Happy Mother’s Day, mommy. Though I may not love you with its Jupiter meaning, thanks for the rice.
I left the morning musk, the birds, the dung by fate that is no more random than an itch inside your nose. I am a fly behind the window blinds. In .16 seconds I’ll be 19 hours and celebrating with dust. Quarantined. My thoughts reverberate like the common cold. I’m asthmatic. I should’ve let him impregnate me. I miss him, my male, and even the pigeons that ate my parents. I thud the glass, the glass, and the glass again. I see Pamela mate in the sun and my bulbous eyes, smashed. I did this to myself. I thud the blinds. Through a slit, I see an oriental girl. I cry but screech ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZ, scraping against her metal fillings. Then, she … stares at me. With the most. Curious sadness? “Baby, can you kill this housefly?” but I don’t live here. Why are you afraid of me? Because I’m a floating owl pellet and I don’t match your room? No, no, no, no— THUD! THUD! THUD. Thud, thud …. thuh——— d.
all is not well and fair / mice freeload her despair / they bite the crumbs, rewards not won / my shrinking spine, my shoes undone // hide in mommy, in her rolls / laboratory, bought her soul / on the table they dig her fat / a woman screamed, she found a rat
Do you ever contemplate happiness? No, of course not. I can crush you with my thumb. You can’t even realize your own death. Do you know what death is? How ‘bout pain? You fucking beautiful ignorant insect. The queen will lay up to 30,000 eggs a day. Most will be workers, some leaf cutters, few guardians, but not one philosopher or one with an eating disorder. I don’t think I’m going to talk for a while.