I begin the day in a cave, blink-blink-blinking the darkness out of my eyes. It takes me twenty minutes to work up the momentum to exit. In those twenty minutes, my deer friend has also woken up. She does not sleep in a cave but rather, a meadow. Bathed in sunlight, filled with flowers. We stand side by side as we brew our cups of tea. Green for her, black for me. I get distracted, and mine ends up over-steeping. I gag with every sip but I finish the mug.
/ / / / /
I begin the day curled up inside of a shell. As soon as he hears me yawn, the snail who lives there asks me if I could please leave. He has to get to work, which is here, in the shell, because he works from home. Some kind of freelance editor. All day, I leave a sticky, pearlescent trail behind me. I am craving salt and vinegar chips.
/ / / / /
I begin the day heavy. Under my eyes there are pockets, packed to the brim with every thing I have ever done or said, everything that has ever been done or said to me. Whenever I blink, they flood my the screen. Replayed at the wrong speed, slightly warped, overexposed. I am dense. A collapsed solar system. A black hole. Out to wreak, out to ruin.
/ / / / /
I begin the day on an island. Desolate, save for a lemon tree and a very nuanced collection of records. I am running low on supplies. The night before, some sweet dumb soul had tried to save me. To build a bridge connecting me to the nearest land mass. I stomped and smashed and screamed and set fire to the rubble that remained. “How dare you!” I shouted, kicking their cement mixers and their cranes into the sea. “How dare you!”
/ / / / /
I begin the day hideous. Raw, peeling, decayed. I want to scrape it all off, but I know well enough that there’s nothing below, so I set to work covering it up. Rubbing and smudging and patting. Liquids and powders and sprays. A slightly sticky exoskeleton in shades of beige. Empty, save for an inch or so of stagnant pond water collecting below the ankles.
/ / / / /
I begin the day curled up inside of a shell. As soon as he hears me yawn, the snail who lives there asks me if I could please leave. He has to get to work, which is here, in the shell, because he works from home. Some kind of freelance editor. All day, I leave a sticky, pearlescent trail behind me. I am craving salt and vinegar chips.
/ / / / /
I begin the day heavy. Under my eyes there are pockets, packed to the brim with every thing I have ever done or said, everything that has ever been done or said to me. Whenever I blink, they flood my the screen. Replayed at the wrong speed, slightly warped, overexposed. I am dense. A collapsed solar system. A black hole. Out to wreak, out to ruin.
/ / / / /
I begin the day on an island. Desolate, save for a lemon tree and a very nuanced collection of records. I am running low on supplies. The night before, some sweet dumb soul had tried to save me. To build a bridge connecting me to the nearest land mass. I stomped and smashed and screamed and set fire to the rubble that remained. “How dare you!” I shouted, kicking their cement mixers and their cranes into the sea. “How dare you!”
/ / / / /
I begin the day hideous. Raw, peeling, decayed. I want to scrape it all off, but I know well enough that there’s nothing below, so I set to work covering it up. Rubbing and smudging and patting. Liquids and powders and sprays. A slightly sticky exoskeleton in shades of beige. Empty, save for an inch or so of stagnant pond water collecting below the ankles.
✱✱✱
