(no subject)
Sometimes I think about us,
all of us,
soft and white and privileged,
hating ourselves everywhere we go.
I imagine myself rolling down the street
like the girl who turned into a blueberry--
Violet?--
waiting for someone to come along with a big tube
and suck everything out of me.
I remember afterwards,
after they sucked all the blueberry juice out of her--
To the juicer!--
she looked sunken.
I remember the sunken hollow underneath your breast bone,
and I imagine you using it as a storing place,
neatly tucking away everything you need to hide
right there under your heart.
(during a liposuction procedure,
all of the fat cells in certain area are sucked out
through a clear plastic hose turning pink with blood.
afterwards, the remaining fat cells grow larger.)
If I ever got the juice squeezed out of me,
I would probably just fill up all that space inside
with everything that scares me,
and all of the parts of myself i don't want seen.
I would get fat again,
and then I would turn inside out.
~
My feet are quiet:
rubber soles cushioned by carpet
slipping silently along linoleum
padding down brown stairs.
I am hating & hating & hating
with every step.
I am going to cry.
It has the metallic density of inevitablity,
but also the sunken feeling that lets me know
I will be okay as long as I need to.
I march like a soldier through the halls,
back impossibly straight,
rage impossibly poignant.
Bullets are whizzing past me
and I am impervious to their presence.
I march through the cafeteria
and focus on my fingernails pressing into my palms
and the sun rising crimson through the tall windows.
Everyone I pass has a halo
that I imagine myself eating,
greedily.
White light pours out of my mouth,
burning,
and I start to glow.
I march out the heavy glass doors
I march out into the sky,
I march down into Hell.
I push myself into a corner and crouch down.
all of us,
soft and white and privileged,
hating ourselves everywhere we go.
I imagine myself rolling down the street
like the girl who turned into a blueberry--
Violet?--
waiting for someone to come along with a big tube
and suck everything out of me.
I remember afterwards,
after they sucked all the blueberry juice out of her--
To the juicer!--
she looked sunken.
I remember the sunken hollow underneath your breast bone,
and I imagine you using it as a storing place,
neatly tucking away everything you need to hide
right there under your heart.
(during a liposuction procedure,
all of the fat cells in certain area are sucked out
through a clear plastic hose turning pink with blood.
afterwards, the remaining fat cells grow larger.)
If I ever got the juice squeezed out of me,
I would probably just fill up all that space inside
with everything that scares me,
and all of the parts of myself i don't want seen.
I would get fat again,
and then I would turn inside out.
~
My feet are quiet:
rubber soles cushioned by carpet
slipping silently along linoleum
padding down brown stairs.
I am hating & hating & hating
with every step.
I am going to cry.
It has the metallic density of inevitablity,
but also the sunken feeling that lets me know
I will be okay as long as I need to.
I march like a soldier through the halls,
back impossibly straight,
rage impossibly poignant.
Bullets are whizzing past me
and I am impervious to their presence.
I march through the cafeteria
and focus on my fingernails pressing into my palms
and the sun rising crimson through the tall windows.
Everyone I pass has a halo
that I imagine myself eating,
greedily.
White light pours out of my mouth,
burning,
and I start to glow.
I march out the heavy glass doors
I march out into the sky,
I march down into Hell.
I push myself into a corner and crouch down.