'broken abecedarian with a nod toward the history of things' and 'mod podge', by BEE LB
broken abecedarian with a nod toward the history of things
let’s get this over with: i hate form. rules
confound me. i break before i bend
most of the time. the rest of the time i flex my
flexibility. i brag. i boast. i think often of
how much better society would be if
we brought back the rack. i know i would end up in one,
but still. self-sacrifice is sometimes called for. i am
nothing if not a martyr. a list of saints memorized. a hell
just waiting for me to deign to enter it. i would buy vegetables for the
purpose of throwing them. antagonist as much as anything else. i have been
accused of having a persecution complex, and did not deny it. accused of
stealing religious aesthetic for the fun of it and did not
deny it. i was made aware of a theory proposing hell is a cave somewhere
underground and asked only why we haven’t found it.
ego the size of all the clouds in heaven. if
you must imagine me, conjure a biblically accurate angel. listen as i
opine the loss of heaven. await the
gates of hell. convinced only by my fear that any of this really
‘xists. trust me when i tell you not to trust me. understand i often lie. in
-vest in me the confidence of a court jester. i am only here to amuse.
relinquish your expectations, hand to me your
qualms, let me shape them in the form of something pleasing. o, you
kindhearted fool, you captive audience,
zealous onlooker,
tell me why you’re still listening.
i will wait until you leave the stage.
Mod Podge
once, i spent each day tracing my face onto the page. nothing changed
but my perception of self. the angle of my jaw, the shape of my eye,
the curve and spike of my hair. i was a child, though i didn’t know it then.
always, i’ve wanted to be more. always, my eyes have been stuck looking
back. i used the flat side of my pencil to shade. my grip was so tight i’d make
myself sore from creation. i’m sure i still have that month tucked away somewhere.
but i don’t reach for it. i’ve stopped searching for mementos. the past is not
laid to rest but it has been buried. i’m not in mourning but i do grieve my small selves.
the bounce of my cheek, the rust in my throat, every piece of me i cut down
in order to keep living. i’ve never been as alone as i felt. there are things i know
to be true and there are things i feel stronger than reality. i believed then as i do
now that emotion is a force to bend at will, to be felt or discarded. if the colors
i see are not the colors you see, how will we know? if my eyes are to be trusted
who can i depend on? if memory can smear from my touch what is it that comes
away on my fingers afterward? charcoal, oil pastel, lead, sediment, paint?
everyone wants me to talk to the past but the truth is they won’t hear me.
i’m not even talking about logic or reality but i remember then, i remember
who i was and who i would listen to and it was never me, i never knew
better. the only voice i’d follow is that of cruelty inside me. i’m sure i’ll grow
though i don’t know i’ll grow out of it. i paint now. i spoiled my last drawing
i made and gave up. an accident is only as meaningful as the damage that results.
some people use coffee as paint. i cry over every small spill. if i close my eyes i can
remember the acrid scent of rubber cement. i still don’t know my own face. i’ve given up
trying to find out what i look like, or who i am. i keep my art in a rainbow craft box.
on one side, rope. on the other, gold. inside, everything i don’t know how to say.
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co and their workshops can be found at poetryasplay.carrd.co.
