how to be wild
how to be proud
do we owe it to each other
to be the fullest self
to search and dig
through the grit and rock
till fingernails break
and palms are blistered
but what we uncover on the way
we store within our soul
in layers shallow and deep
and don’t we owe it to each other
to fight to discover ourselves
for if we fail to do that
what would we ever learn?
i have forgotten
what it means to be real.
I have forgotten that skin and flesh
and soul and mind
belong to each other.
I have forgotten that my universe
and my surroundings
depend on each other.
I have been juggling two truths.
What my eyes see
and my skin feels
versus my imaginations interpretation.
whirled and battered is my internal perspective.
how could everything be so clear and clean and polished in my vision
yet chaotic and fluid
— where gravity pulls and twists
the matter of my thoughts
with such intense velocity
that a strand of sense is impossible
to grasp within my mind?
how does one make sense
of such a harsh contradiction?
that the reality my fingers brush
is so rigid and secure
but my reality
where i will infinitely reside
collapses only to re-morph
with every dash of truth it is confronted with
how am i to know which is real then?
there was a moment
when i decided to save myself.
when i thought: enough.
when i realized that being kind to myself
did not mean
basing decisions off convenience
and there is no love without challenge
no reward without bravery
and as i suddenly decided to attack everything that scared me
my terror evaporated and melted into the dewy sponge of my past
and my phantom fear was just a stain in my memories
and I’m soaring.
drowning in a room with no walls
kicking to tread water
but there is no surface to break
how do you save yourself from drowning when you are not even wet?
how do you inhale when your lungs are already full?
how do you escape
a body in which you are infinitely trapped?
kick me when I’m down
i want you to
throw stones at my soft flesh
until you bruise a beating heart
rock me and sway me
make me lose my balance
betray me until i’m left to wonder
if we are all just enemies
i welcome you to feast on my fear
i invite you to enable me to make myself proud
and i warn you
you will be disappointed
i am not an easy target
my passive days are passed
i will fiercely protect myself
and i will gladly argue darkness with light.
Oh, you’re one of those.
Oh, you’re one of those people,
Oh, you’re one of those girls,
You’re one of them.
Into corners we push our foreign
The disagreers, the nonbelievers,
Neatly dusted into piles where we can ignore them
And through objectification we are freer.
We are not homogenous
Not like those with the audacity to disagree
With the individual humans that make us
For we are safe from their obscenity.
Speak your mind of course,
As long as it abides by our unspoken consensus
(Or is laced with agreeable remorse)
that our beliefs are relentlessly just.
Should you disobey,
May you live pleasantly,
But then how could I be one of them (a),
When they just called me one of them (b)?
Do I become one of them (x)? them (z)?
Could I just be one of… me?
I have many times had been made to feel like a toothbrush. One appreciates his toothbrush. One uses his toothbrush how he pleases, when he pleases. One cares for his toothbrush, but only because it works to his advantage to do so. One does not worry about what’s going on with his toothbrush, or if his toothbrush is having a bad day. One actually completely forgets about his toothbrush whenever he doesn’t need it. But if the toothbrush does work as well as usual or doesn’t give him that minty fresh feeling right after he spits, he may show concern. One doesn’t think much of his toothbrush being there every morning and night, but if it wasn’t he would feel frustrated, as if his life was vacant of something of great value. One would certainly care very much if someone else used his toothbrush. And when the bristles of a toothbrush begin to round and grow coarse, or the body of the toothbrush snaps and holding it is now an inconvenience, then he throws the toothbrush in the trash, and gets a new one.
I have been a loyal toothbrush that served my purpose for years. I would make him feel clean and satisfied. I sometimes didn’t even mind digging into his back molars and pulling out the remanence of his dinner. I was glad to dig the pulled pork out from the crevice between his gums, or to smooth the moist hamburger bun out the dip of the teeth in the back of his mouth. I cleaned up the messes that nobody else knew of or could possibly notice. That only he felt, and weighed intensely on him, but were essentially invisible to anyone besides the two of them. I was his only remedy to feel comfortable again. I didn’t mind being his toothbrush, it gave me purpose, and was satisfied to do my job right and feel his gratitude.
I was only important to them relative to them. I was a counterpart to their life, not a human in my own right. As genuinely as their care for me seemed, it was really just care for themselves. As a toothbrush to one’s dental hygiene. The only point of a toothbrush is to make one feel good. Nobody cares how the toothbrush feels.
So, if I stopped making their teeth feel pearly and fresh morning and night, a new toothbrush they would find.