The Day of My Collapse

By Selene Deschenes

Philosophy rakes my mind and makes as much sense as a cold block of celery tied with a bow and left on my doorstep.

Two lovers approach and do not hold back. I decide to spectate just a moment too long. It is too late. The sickly worm indulges himself in my jealous insides.

A worm and a block of celery.

A priest. An assembly line.

A survey sent in the mail.

The male hair that is not mine on my carpet.

A pause before I enter the restroom of my gender.

I am a product of these happenings.

An invisible student is assaulted by theory.

Trying to cope in the "lock-down," "knock-out" of school, I am flattened to a dimension like a wall.

Wishing that Spiderman would soon find his way up.

Resisting, rejecting, quelching love.

With the lick that I give my fingertips to pinch a flame that sizzles my skin.

I have reached the basement of my soul–empty? Yes. If we do not count the billions of filthy discarded thoughts.

Oh muse, oh art–the one source that I live by.

Have you only just begun your in vitro connection with me?

Should I spring from my bed as you turn out the lights?

Hallejulah to all, and to me a good plight.

I prefer the image of ants conquering the elephant,

But right now my breath is stagnant.

I believe in rebellion, dead presidents, captive crews.

I did miss the battle and march to tie up my shoe.

To think of gender and enthnicity has just pushed me further into the headspace of the friendly giant.

The giant, the ultimate, the Brahman, the clay from which we are all made.

My clay is the same as everyone elses–but my glaze is peeling.

Age starts to determine my worth.

I am no longer just a female, a white–aching to be any other race but her own female.

She has missed the average global age to give birth by six years and still in this developed world is seen as too young.

I am my own baby.

I am too young in this world to make a difference.

So. I give birth to you words.

The words that nip at my heels like hyenas. The words that breed like parasites behind my sight.

My eyes do not lie.

I will not hide that my mind is in a pressure cooker.

I will not disguise this connection with the ultimate.

I no longer think that she is just a middle-aged man who has never seen the Mona Lisa.

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