pluto
i felt jealousy for the first time today, for my unblessed wish to stain you in my dirty scent, to watch the bliss pour into your eyes
but it’s hot and harsh, i’m paper for ink, a pit for kindling
the river has dried
the river is you
sitting on my bed with a bag of chips and youtube on my ipad after a long day of being loved, i recognized a shadow of my fourteen year old self, and regressed into it, and i ate the whole bag, and i thought, how great is life right now, the news is terrible and yet we do still live in a world where young and powerless women like me can attain happiness without men, this is my reality, and i wish i could share it, but i can’t help that i want to pursue my own life, liberty, and happiness, just like the declaration of independence actually said, (huh, america had it right all along) and that’s the world i want for me and everyone, but if it’s not possible, can i have it at least for myself?
i write what i hate, but it feels okay
to talk about your eyes one more time
and the chaos that let us debris collide
just one more orbit around the sun
if i can ask for that
i hope to see you here again, next year
i sometimes forget that i'm allowed to drink alcohol. it's a rush of giddy pleasure every time i forget, and open up my fridge, and see the last remaining beer, and remember, oh yeah, i'm allowed to do that. i have agency over my life. i can ingest and inject whatever i choose after i get home from work, i can down a six pack and a bag of chips, a bottle of bleach, even, i can open the window to my balcony and have a cigarette and throw myself over, or i can take a bath and go to a bar and have sex with a stranger, i can get on a random train and fall into a place where no one knows me, i can ask someone for directions and they might kill me or marry me in ten years. there is a me that exists outside of this routine. a me that is radiant and violent, who resists the order of the universe and demands to live. see, there it is; inside the fridge.
the overwork is obvious in the mirror. she wants to live in color like those stupid tasteless idiots making cheap products for fun but it all seems so irrelevant next to the news. is fun even allowed anymore? can she still believe in the birth of children as an act beyond pain and sin?
the guard posted at the central tower of the panopticon clocks out at 7pm. boris gives him the usual wordless grunt when they swap out. the sky is already a dim blue when he gets to the bus stop. he sits near the back and watches two young girls laugh loudly over something on their phone for a bit, then looks at the little specks of streetlights going by. in the comfort of his home he looks at himself in the mirror. his calves and thighs and shoulders burn from the long hours of dancing. one day he will make it out of the tower. one day someone will see him. and they'll understand, through the movements of his body, the things he wants to but cannot express in words. they'll see his body and his soul.
ah, fuck, sorry, i just had to laugh at this one. my home! this crazy commercial circus. and me, the clown at the forefront, dragging the carriage along. i'm gonna miss it but it's time to let go. it's been a wild ride, tokyo.
across the town there are signs. aluminum sheets, old peeling letters on concrete, white handwriting on splintering blue panels, arrow stickers on the sidewalk. escape route this way. keep barricade closed. in case of tsunami warning, leave coast immediately. in between the humble little homes squatting carelessly about the seaside, there are huge tower-like structures, four enormous steel beams that hold a single platform at the top with the words 'tsunami evacuation site' stamped across in intimidating blocky characters big enough to see from a mile away. death is close, death is only a few steps away, the signs say. right there in the sparkling crystal water. inside of that aquamarine gem that you so adore now. it can come get us anytime and there's nothing we can do about it. this is the price you pay to be here now. remember that you will die, sometime, anytime, under the shadow of a tsunami, or the shadow of time. we cannot escape the massive crush of nature's gravity, the signs say.
we drive past them, and look at the sea. how beautiful, we sigh.
a girl was flat on the stairs, thighs out, skirt rucked, convulsing. a boy hovered over her on the phone. not my problem, i chanted to myself as i slid through the ticket gate, raked my eyes over ten kinds of instant miso soup, ate my quick dinner, brushed my teeth and slid into my soft bed.
i still remember how her straight black bangs fanned out perfectly over her forehead, her porcelain skin glowing with the soft pink flush of a cherry blossom's petal. her serene expression as the soul punched its way out of her chest again and again.
the ultimate form is well-oiled
enough to slip right through
the tunnel is the destination, the one in which the anxiety of the doll slumbers
one eye open
in ecstasy
in fear
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