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Flesh
Kaydi Chou
5 Jan 2005
So I've got this mess of jumbled sleep inside of me. And I don't know how to purge it.
I feel sluggish, slow, slant. And I don't know why it's there.
There's got to be a method to this madness.
With pretty lies, I'll bat my eyes. But what use is batting them if no one cares enough to see?
No, I've got someone who cares enough. But if he cares that much, why would I lie to him in the first place?
I want to be moved. I want to fly.
I want to feel alive. Not this half-dead kind of slow where I'm not even allowed to breathe in so deep.
The mountains. I want the mountains. I want to fill my lungs until they're seering with gasps of fresh air.
Positively seering. Burning.
I want change, movement- something new, something fresh. I want to taste the ripeness of an Asian pear.
I want to be beautiful.
I know I'm beautiful. The comfort kind of beautiful. I know that. But I want to feel it. I want to feel change.
Routine creates stagnation of the mind.
I want to travel again. I want to be the mistress of my own domain. I want to stand tall.
I ate a cup of Ramen noodles. The kind in the styrofoam cup where all you add is hot water. Then, a miracle happens, and you get soft noodles after three minutes.
Soft. I am soft. I am made of flesh and bone. Mostly flesh.
When we see cows, we see their flesh. Will someone look at me the same way one day? Will they say, "Her flank is good for eating. Her ribs will be juicy. The filmy fat of her bones will be good in my soup."
Only giants eat people. That's what Jack says. Are we monsters to the cows like the giants appear as monsters to us?
Everyone's got to eat.
I don't want to eat. I don't want to talk. I don't want to work.
I just want to feel
fresh.
There was once a boy who would stick a pin through his body everyday. The blood would coat his sweater- turn the dark blue fleece to maroon. And yet, someone still loved him.
Everyone's looking for love.
I want to love
every second of the day.
I want to be perpetually bound by that kind of ecstasy and to let it tremble on my lips like the dew on the grass.
But there's this jumbled mess inside of me. And I don't know how to purge it.
Perhaps I'll stretch
out
and wrap myself around with my limbs. And then I will listen to my Muse.
Because they always make me feel
like I'm flying.
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