Secrets

No resurrection?

I am the island. My words, they dance on the ripples around my beaches and the people in boats, they applaud. But the mouth of the cave is far too large. It will swallow up the shores and the people and their bread and their children and their dreams. Black Hole. The words, they become like clay in the water and the people smooth them to become mirrors. And they stare all day long. The mirrors are thin and crumbly. I, the island, lay with silence and confound the boats and the bread and the people with the fruit trees and vines. The children play and fall asleep. The people hush them and carry them back to sail. And the anchors are lifted. Night. In the morning, they return with old bodies and young faces. The children have grown. Night and morning, the dance is the same. Tonight, I shall charge admission.

as the world is so ugly.

And so, I lay amongst sheets, convinced that the shadeless window is enough for me to stay under.

There are unhappy women here. And they take regular, indulgent dips in denial. Their nonchalance is like plaster in the place of cement. All it takes is one swift kick to dismantle them. And there is something holy in their hate. Because, of course, it is obvious they hurt. With their stubby fingers, adorned with paint. Their fingers that cannot reach their elbows. Their fat fingers that reach for men who will not love them. Fat fingers that reached for sons who won't love them. Fat fingers that grasp things as though they fear those things will leave them. And all the while, they laugh with the choke of tears and a rubber cement nonchalance. And a medley of disgusting instruments that play false music.

The Black thought is ushered away from existence in a cloud of black smoke. Meanwhile, white prevails. As it has always been, and even before me. He rolls up his sleeves and adjusts his collar. He gathers his papers, he stands at altar. She chews and pops gum. Another rolls his eyes, crosses arms. He opens a mouth that will fix. He spews a thing that hugs tears to their eyes. And it becomes so, the fix. They roll up their sleeves and adjust their collars and stand at alter. And they build. Their skin looks like chocolate milk. He stands again, now before many more. He opens his mouth that will fix And a clean shot pierces his mid-sentence, in a cloud of green smoke.

The alcohol opens our chests. The treasure seeps. It’s all too much. I manage to keep it all, I become something to hold her secrets. I have Mary Poppins’d my own secrets.

I have breasts dangling from my front but they barely move. They only confuse men and I am confused by them, too. And when I was five, I wanted them out of curiosity. I pushed the sides of my torso together to form butt cheeks on my chest. Not knowing that I couldn't rid myself of them. Birth defect. I'm going to cut them off at 28.

Born of a one sided orgasm, I am shifty. A schism and held underwater, in between two blankets. I am no production, no great fable. For my disease, there is no identifier, no bracelet: castaway. I am a series of walks back and forth, Here to there--- pacings. Made up of tiny heartbeats---pit-patterings. Yet, I am the staff that split Moses' ocean. I am the disgusting burden in his heart as he drowns his brother again and again. I am the stagnant water that enters lungs, coughed up by nobody. The nearly perfect evening, where the clouds obscure the flamboyant sunset. The bastard child of madness, the one who teeters, straddles a sharp fence. I, who am terrified of my greatness, trade prospect for prospects. I, who will etch in stone the certainty of my death, embrace the dark box of knowing. And every morning, I inhale my awakening inhalation, as though I did not throw myself into complete unknown-ness the night before. Every morning, I manage to feel better than the day before. And to find something to laugh about.

Where it once stood, there are now clouds. It was once perched on a windowsill beside a singular pink flower in a white pot. Beyond, there was a blue sky. And before, a polka-dot curtain. On display for the passerby. The window is now blown out. And there is no display. There is nothing. It is now mingled with a white sky ready to open.

They only come when you can hear the pauses in my heartbeat and they settle in for the night between the rebellion of your snores and your hush. It is a new season of They, conforming to my tongue, growing into their own skin, getting closer to what they want. I can't sleep tonight. I have thoughts that want me to climb upon you awkwardly and insert my chipped courage into you. And I have thoughts that want to cling to you.