In lieu of a knife
(or, Five Things About Me That Say Nothing About Me)
Five. When I’m not writing to feed myself, or to keep the lights on, or the water running, or the walls up around me, or to populate my home with the trappings of a fattened and civilized life, I’m writing to an unknown enemy. I extend language far out into the world, send them as I would my hands for a point of contact in the dark, or daggers aimed at a moving target. My words fly up and fall in line, like the blind leading the blind, with the sharp side facing forward.
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Four. My body is a ship made of swans. My thighs are tender hurricanes. My right hand is a sleeping beast. My collarbones are waning crescents. My eyes are deer, or headlights, or both, fading in and out and like mountains. My heart flutters, a canary in a coal mine. No, scratch that. My heart is a coal mine. No, wait. My heart is collapsible, light at 6 oz., no hinges, with compartments, travel-sized, quiet, good with dogs, available in red, and sometimes in blue.
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Three. Long ago, I lived in a house that was in a perpetual state of being pulled apart, brick by brick. Even when I had just arrived, I was almost always already leaving. I’ve been told that my French exit is impeccable, perfectly choreographed to suit any space. I like rooms that echo. Once, in conversation, I threw my silence like a scythe in the air, and the crowd parted. I’m not very fond of doors with knobs that turn clockwise. None of these sentences are related.
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Two. And then the sun finally came out after days and days of wet. I tried to move it around like a chess piece. But there would be no more games from here on out, they told me. In their laboratory in an undisclosed location, the gene for wickedness had finally been isolated. Numerous procedures were done, yet still, my anatomy refused to part ways with its compulsions. It was a matter of will, I said—I had legitimized my limbs to commit every act of treason known to (hu)man(kind).
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One. “Favorite color?” Vantablack. “Favorite position?” Star-shaped. “Favorite roleplay?” Unreliable narrator. “Favorite substance?” Anguish. “Favorite ending?” Consensual. “Favorite time of day?” 4:43. No, make that 4:42. 4:42 on weekdays. “Okay, you’re really not taking this seriously.” But you said this was a fun way to keep busy—and I’m having fun! Any more questions on that list? “Yes, last one. Favorite person you’ve ever loved?” Myself. In the dark. And slowly.
Loved this!!!