the last time i had written a poem i was a whore, fucking every random verse, my skin layered with the grimness of flaws. now in a shiny blue box (with a lid) i am slowly oozing ectoplasm.
“i will vanish,” i promise what remains of me.
there goes my toes, my legs, my fingers. there goes my arms. there goes my chest, my half-bitten face. the blue butterflies are gone. my best friend doesn’t take my calls.
“did you see my heart? the left auricle, did you see it?”
i run bare feet on floors of marble. i run clutching my chest, my id sets off alarms all across town. “i am on fire,” i scream and no one gives a damn. professionalism is all about being someone you can hate without guilt. i plant myself before a computer, its jaws agape with newness, and glare back into its stifling glare. no, this is not about writing codes. or challenging history. or disseminating. or introspecting. or anything you think it is.
this is about waiting till you explode.
the air-con whizzes above ceilings that crush. everything is shiny and glass and false. i forget the last time i tasted fresh. i forget the taste of rain. barred windows kick sunlight back to the hills. my eyes sink lower in their sockets till all i see is continuity. all day i watch the atmosphere drumming on their flat faces. tired it bursts into paranoia. and i cannot breath.
“can you lend me oxygen?” i ask the girl in the next chair.
“that is forbidden! don’t utter that word here!”
i panic, flap my arms around desperate to fly. suddenly i am crippled. claustrophobic. i am walking the edge of parapets ten stories high. the walls swoop down. “an invite,” i smile. in a city of trams, my parents celebrate their daughter’s job with expensive joy.
999 km away, secretly i google sleeping pills. anything to help me die. then return to the parapet in the middle of the night.
“i am glad i don’t have wings.”
roads twist into pretzels. the lights are lost. i run in loops. i run again. i run till my mouth drips naphthalene blood. it rains ash on the hills next door.