Monday I eavesdropped on a conversation about bleaching wood pulp
Tuesday I slipped on a patch of frozen mud
Wednesday I slipped on a frozen Jehovah’s Witness tract
Thursday I slept on a bed of tangerine rinds
Friday I woke up on a balance beam and took the bell peppers out of his hands
Saturday I found out that the gall bladder of a fish can poison you
Sunday I left my keratin all over her bed
Nusday her bed folded into the wall and there were no more feathers, hooves, hair
Rutasday my gall bladder poisoned a family of fish
Irfday it rained bell peppers and he published his autobiography Balance Beam
Sruhtday tangerines went extinct and no one slept
Sendewday a Jehovah’s Witness got a urinary tract infection
Seutday everything thawed and the mud dried back into dirt
Nomday your pulp bleached me
I didn’t want to get out of bed so I read an article on my smart phone about the absurd amount of carcinogens in cosmetics. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to throw away my favorite tube of lip stain but I have come to the conclusion that pity is a pathogen and I need a fillet knife, stainless steel meat saw, some kind of radiation to blot out the crimes that I can’t stop excavating and salting and drying out on racks—
I’m shirtless and hunched over re-pitting them back into my chest in the backyard morning gloss.
I cannot afford to spare anything that wants me back. We all require different levels of morale— the troops need country singers in low-rise blue jeans, the employees need quarterly raises, the soccer players need color coordinated foam fingers and I need an external hard drive for all of the flashbacks I can’t fucking carry any longer. The flashbacks with lips curling, flashbacks of blood choreographing blood in the bathwater, the electric baseboards, the orchids I found sautéing in the cast iron. I need a place to store myself for the beige winter. I need an iconoclast to pillage my body while I’m gone— one comfortable burning the orthodox and unorthodox idols until they delaminate, until they parch back into the years of my veneration they sucked in with false mouths.
I just need someone to be able to love me for at least a decade, one humid and symmetrical decade, until they look at me one day over breakfast and see the empty quarry that I have never once stopped cutting slate from. Just give me one decade before they notice the lifetime of placebos and sham surgeries and concrete molds idling behind my vacant, moisturized face.
Hannah Jove is a poet and multimedia artist currently living in Seattle, WA. Previous publications include Persona and Raw Paw. You can find her online at HannahJove.com