Pretty Mirror Book, chapter 1

Do you remember me?

The lines of my forehead

worried, the whispers of

my tea making. Incessant

reminders etched in my 

name even. You were

the moon and I was-

i was a physical mixture

pure air. 

I am not eating again.

The emptiness is the only

heaviness i have to weigh

me to the earth. I've 

started to wonder about

my heart. I thought it was

broken before but 

now I'm sure. It skips

beats and I have been

to the hospital. They

told me.

Eat. I can't eat.

fresh oranges crinkling

juice out of the 

clear catarpillar shells.

I love the taste of 

oranges but I am

afraid. 

Afraid of choking.

My grandmother had

to plunge her hand

down my throat once.

She extracted the orange 

and the world expanded

again, I was breathing

again. But after that,

always afraid.

Oranges taunt me.

Their sunset colour

fresh summer smell.

You know. At least,

if you remember. 

I feel like I have

a hole where my 

heart was and at

times I strain to feel

it but the beat is 

a mocking like a 

clock I know is

about to go wrong

it may be 11:11 now

but at any moment

one 1 will drop and

the set will locate

lonliness looking around

endlessly for the other

not coming.

I feel like once I 

felt your wings and

they felt fragile

but now all i feel

is the cage of the

world without the

softness of your feathers

pressing my hair 

out of my eyes.

I am drinking tea

in a quiet morning

black orange pekoe

the closest to the 

colour I can allow

Do you remember

waking up early-

so early it is dark-

the adults are crying

and we all must

start to pray so urgently

yes, the world is ending

I'm older now (you too)

but I still can't get

these early mornings out

I wake gasping to a god

i lost all faith in

I am eternally 

four years old and 

chicken little is all

too real. I wake up

gasping about to pray

tears coursing down my

 face. I can feel the 

urgency.

Did your mother

clutch at her own

chest and sob so

forlornly? Did your mother

light candles and

remind you of all

the torture coming?

We were born to

holy ones.

I don't know what

set her off those 

times. She heard the 

voice of god and 

we must all listen

to the wind in the 

pines. I thought i

heard him once too

but she told me to

be careful to speak-

others could think

I was crazy and

take me far far far 

away.

As it was, we were

the chosen ones. So,

this is how the 

world ends. Manacles.

Chains of all shapes

a viscious gaze. Now

they will ask me to

accept Sunday as the

Sabbath. Now they will

test my faith with fire

and cuts from steel

blades. I must stay 

true for all this will 

be nothing compared

to if I collapse. 

I am afraid still 

I see hell

coming.  I am appalled

and enthralled. I think

somewhere I got a 

malformed crush on

lucifer and how far 

he could fall. 

this is something i could

only confess to you...

Is your hair shorn

or does it fall around

like a veil? If you

thought of my folly 

would it make a 

smile stretch? Hidden

behind your hand or

your hair? So what.

I had the adolescent 

hots for lucifer. 

He could do so much.

I was sick of

sacrifice and blood.

He was Yes. He

was tearing the peel

off to get to 

the flesh orange orange

orange. He was mischief

and beautiful dark eyes

saying Yes.

after yes he hadn't 

the guilt. I am

still sick of the guilt. 

I am still sick of 

seeing my legs staining

once a month and

no matter how I try

to stuff the science 

in-it gets in-

i am the dirtiness of

eve's line, born to

apologize for a fruit

i never tasted.

I apologized for

years already through

my blood. You 

were there, then,

pressing cotton to

my arms. 

You were the first 

to hold me hostage

in your arms just

to say i was not

dirty. You were the

one unravelling their

lies.

I love you for that.

Your belief in me

grew slowly through

my mind like vines.

Is this the connection

still? It's all so tangling.

I am picking through

leaves, my mouth

smeared by the berries

of thought that 

tried to get in.

I am trying so

hard to be normal

in a world I

did not grow up in.

This world was a fable

of satan, remember?

The cities of Sodem and

the godliness of whoredom

and man's reckless swinging

toward godhood for

themselves.

I feel like a mannequin

or a piece of breeze

so apart still. I just can

not decide if i should 

be breathing.

We are not children

of this city; we

never went to a 

single prom. We are

not children of 

these parks. We

stand ackwardly 

at the few night

clubs we've gone to.

I know you can't

wait to get back

to your apartment

because I feel it too

so strongly.

I borrow your beauty

sometimes. Your I don't

care energy. I pick

my way through the 

crowds in the morning

coffee cup clutching. 

I don't care i don't 

care or your other

bemused bemused bemused

but always sepparate.

I borrow a lot of you

because, frankly, I like

you a lot more

than I like me.

Is that more of

my conditioning? You,

after all, were your 

parent's first born son.

First born son mythology

was stuck into us so brutally.

We were smart to leave

but mythology is immortal

and we could never travel

far enough.

Look at us! All the

continents between us.

Your parents dragged you

into danger preaching.

My parents never even 

acknowelged danger

dragging me between

their indecisivness.

I am so tired 

of the hiding 

so i have to 

tell you all the 

places I've been

trying to sear the

bible stories out of

me. I wonder if

the telling is growing

the vine inside

our minds.

When we left, did

we realize it would 

be a life long process?

And isn't it funny,

my career? It's a 

big F-U- to the

flowered aproned

dresses, the no cosmetics,

the no adornment.

I had to be in the

most aethetically pleasing

salon I could find. 

I had to surround

myself in superficial

beauty. I had to 

find somewhere that

has wearing lipstick

in the dress code.

My shears are even

extravagent- the kind

of steel finish that 

looks like an oil slick

a dull metallic rainbow

that enchants as it

clouds hair into pleasing

shapes. I am smiling

in the midst of

exhaustion there because

to them it is the

courting of lucifer.

let them think me

gone already to hell!

their heaven gave me

such scars!

We've read Jung,

Nietzche, Proust;

we've read forbidden

fiction and philosophy.

We know psychology

traces things to childhood

dreams. We know 

the rattling of words

in our throats. 

the coughing continues

i draw flowers out.

Stems, leaves, petals,

stamen. They wove

a moses basket, where

I put my

miscarried babies in.

I have streaks of

tears on my face

for futures that

were bent right 

back to the past.

......

you bring flowers of 

philosophy

you left me

buried six feet under

Sunday morning

i was born again.

.............

My mother tells me

I was born without

air. No doctors, and

the cord wrapped

three times around.

I feel I am still

gasping.

So for a moment,

let us humour

psycology.

You were born

when your father

was sleeping. Was

he still asleep?

he, in another life,

was a scientist.

he closed those

eyes and opened

his heart to the 

cult. You were

named for his

journey. 

When I was young

there were some

magical things:

crab apple trees,

hay bale jumping,

deer at salt licks,

auroura stretched 

dripping watercolours

down.

My brothers and 

sisters played tag

hide and seek

and bear. The 

forest stretched

up and up and

the beavers built 

their dams.

Imagine the chill air.

the dogs barking hello.

the neighbors come for

tea.

Then my mother and 

the old man argue 

the apocolypse.

The magic was 

still there. It just 

changed to the

cosmic kind, where

my mother was as 

helpless as i.

and i felt it to

my bones. In the

end of ends,

no one would protect

me. 

Can you still quote 

scripture? Remember when

we were told the

holy books would burn

and all we had was

our memory? So,

do you still remember

John 3:16?

I thought  by now

we'd all be dead,

or in heaven watching

the dying die-

angels reading scrolls why.

My face close to yours on the grass
then
and your smile pressed into my back
when
i laughed cried sighed oh god, is this
it then for me? this acceptance? the last
stage to my growing? more and more acceptance?
i am a coughing creature, i am constant
contradictions, colour concentrated, can not
pick favourites, i am laughing out loud
and shuddering down on sadness. i am.
unable to stand criticism. bend for years
until SNAP, change comes natural, stasis is
hard. i am dragon fly winged on all days
except halloween, tulle and glitter and
not always practical until i am the most
pragmatic person ever to be met, with
carefully constructed reasons, yeses and nos.
i am the quiet one in the corner crafting, the
singer with the loudest voice and strangest
way of playing the piano with my feet, i am
cat addicted, people distrustful. i hate conflict
so i would rather not bother try having long long
long long relationships of any sort, i'll lose my
voice. will i?
will i?
will i?