#day000

“But you have no weapons.”

The demon grew closer, stretching the tendrils of its wispy non-fingers toward my face. Its bones, exposed, are made of fear and dust collected from lonely windowsills. Its face is an urban ghetto, sagging and rugged, but lined with something that we learn to call home. Flaunting its yellowed fangs, rotting and unable to gnash as they used to, it exerts its dominance over gravity as justification of its divinity. 

I straighten - smile, even.

obliterated. annihilated. defeated + 1.

possible only by uncanny ability to hear the quality of depth, acquired by a love for fishing in the void.

possible only by being a thing that breathes madness, always seeking solitude.

annihilated sees without eyes.

a condition of rebirth, a sign one’s contracted the possibility.

symptoms include:      poetry, shameless &frequent bouts of dancing, giggle fits, insomnia, sensitivity to alcohol, deep appreciation of the moon and all things magical, speechlessness, bright eyes, contentment and inherent ease in water, constant weather

a wealth of this incredible thing that is happening at my fingertips on a keyboard right now. a thing that imparts smiles in knowing there exist creatures, called butterflies, that land on your head, if only briefly.

チョッパーのブックエンド

If I cannot be a martyr, Let me have my stake in the earth, a place to stand and burn a little, an inescapable, heroic death that doesn’t make suffering seem cool, but also validates mine just a little.

If I cannot be a martyr, Give me strong arms and definition. an entry next to desire in the OED, an attitude that shines, halo-like,  on my perfect, glossy hair. Please add good hair to the list of demands.

If I cannot be a martyr, Teach me how to speak in tongues. A nuanced battle of non-words that has neither winner or loser only my mouth and a language of creation. Make it sensual and unapologetic.

If I cannot be a martyr,

Show me the world - a home to fireflies and the thing that inspires the glory of sacrifice. Show it to me in color and good-smelling bakeries. Show it to me in oil paintings and songs and too much wine. Show it to me with your teeth and your hands and all the parts of you that are too big for your body.

If I cannot be a martyr, let me be a blaze of sorts. The kind that is more spectacle than destruction - 

If I cannot be a martyr, give me a moderately priced, aluminum-frame road bike and warm pan y tomate cada mañana - no matter what window is performing good morning rites. If I cannot be a martyr, I’m gonna wear tiny skirts and crop tops. I’m gonna stay up too late and buy expensive moisturizer. I’ll live between the pages of a good book, loose-leaf tea and fresh ginger basil whiskeys furnished by my very own garden.

If I cannot be a martyr

If I cannot be a martyr

How I loved you with gifts of snowflakes and bedtime stories, playlists with songs for every kind of sad. The moon was all I had eaten in weeks and December tasted like fire and rain and things that were beautiful because we couldn't make sense of them.

How I loved you from a distance, an artist taking a step back from her masterpiece to admire its form. Painting your cheeks rosy, my fingers thought pink may be the color of forever.

How I loved you spilling over the edge into a place that was dangerous, in spite of the warning: keep out signs, I sang my siren hymns, worshiping naked skin with cascading whispers. You woke up hungry for concrete, an antidote to bated sighs and the flood  rattling you from the comfort of sleep - was it for this that you left me?