“I used to be gold. First prize collarbones, atomic number 79. I think of our bodies unhinging. Dismantling a masterpiece we worked so hard to build with creased hands. A workshop of cracking spines to straighten out the way we would slouch. Maintenance was: drilling openings inside each others joints, stitching ligaments, embroidering our hopes beneath surfaces in cryptic codes unseen. When I arrived I was sun. Already sweltering inside your pores, glazing skin in honey residue. My promises rinsed over in drizzling rain, marinating your bones, flooding, breaking into the current network of your nerves. Often, all I have are promises. It starts with a loud rumbling noise from the inside out, a vicious clap of thunder rendering breathing patterns defenceless. An expansion of pressure that is too close for comfort. When I think of slipped disks, they remind me of those stepping stones we crossed towards the Colosseum we had in our minds. We hung expectations from our shoulders. Self depreciation is a gale force wind who knocks once, twice, strikes fragility down with her fury—ungluing the grip beneath my feet, begging that I get familiar with my knees. She says, “You’re going to have to look at them up close if you want to learn how to assess damage.” When I unzipped my ribcage I saw those impressions that you’d left on my heart, ransacked awareness told me you’d been here, moulding yourself between my ventricles. Last night I set a fire, and watched as it burn the end of the rope that I’d been holding to keep you close.” — Lauren Flynn, “I used to be gold.”
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 21:33:29 +0000
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