Distracted


fingers building arpeggios like a bridge from then to now. we can’t go back. memory is a wormhole. pretend you’re yelling at someone. publicly and furiously. do you feel her flesh the moment the words land. when she blinks, do her lashes catch you between them. do they send a soundwave. small like butterfly wings. air. earthquake. hurricane and tsunamis on the other side of the world. does this land on your lips like a kiss. a scorpion tail. a sting. i want to fuck. we are a myriad different experiences of love and pain. invisibility became a choice when I learned how to steal a white man’s gaze. i caught it between my eyelashes. He looked down. apologised 7 months later when I let his soul fly back to him. Man: an abundance of rage in the place of life. it is a joy to think at all but not always. i really hope you meant me. how old were you. was i. were we.

i am no one’s manic pixie but my own. a hard read. how did male superheroes learn to sew their costumes. their masks. falling pants as dusk falls to where she was closest. i miss the ocean salt the way it covers you, stings you. it gets everywhere. later in the shower searching between my legs. sand and salt. it’s a different clean.

if you could have any superpower what would it be? close your eyes. do it. think about it. flight maybe. I would want to fly. reading minds. forcing minds. invisibility. telekenisis. what do you want to do.

now what is the thing you do – whether you mean to or not. what is your gift/curse – that thing that unfailingly happens no matter what you want. what is your superpower already. i will tell you mine: I can turn to stone and turn anyone and anything to stone too. i can build stone walls, invisible and miles high, thick as the earth’s crust, out of thin air. when I read to him in bed, you have a voice for poetry, he said. I have a voice for witchcraft I thought.

i remember my camera film memory recording everything. then i remember it

breaking. then            .
white noise. grey space.

what is the opposite of memory.

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This entry was posted in Articles, poetry, Thoughts on Life, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Distracted

  1. Pingback: A Witch Is Born | Kshyama's Attic

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