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I was the sculptor and the sculpture, carving-away the unsightly parts of self until I was ready for the kiln.

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Cell towers, high above the tree line. The drapery of darkness, descending, its shadows papered across my imperfections.

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Amphetamine moon, smoldering stars, the clouds were rung-out and withered. My countenance under-lit as a rectangle of light opened across my chest.  

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I emerged, crafted, contoured and hardened, ready for display.

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An actor animated, I sought assimilation so as to not succumb to starvation. I feasted on apple innards, these fleshy fruits intended to entice animals to spread their seeds, their juices dripping down my hands.

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I spread rumors about myself that rose into the ether like columns of smoke. 

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But as I made myself bigger and bigger, my words seemed smaller and smaller.

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My personhood plunged into a terrarium of dermestid beetles, to be skeletonized, my fleshly folds and their sinew, eaten and stripped away.

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A history of my own invention, trauma and elation, fingertips dancing across smooth glass until I became untethered and without context. 

 

I picked at my skin knowing that with each flake shed, I'd weigh a little less. I picked at the scab on my ear so that when I finally laid to rest my head, a spot of blood stained my white pillow case.

 

Something of myself, a memory to carry into sleep:

 

​I'd inherited this earth but never tilled or sowed the soil.

 

I'd inherited this earth but had built very little here, my roots shallow.

 

I'd never be wed to this land. 
 

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