Please don’t look at me.
Please don’t think of me.
Please forget who this is.
Don’t you see? There’s nothing to me.
Why can’t you see it?
You already known this.
You’ve seen my body,
you have peeked at my soul.
There’s nothing of value,
nothing like what you’d hoped.
Just a bag of blood and bones.
If you care still, a bit of writhing soul.
There’s nothing here special.
Long time since I’ve been touched by the spiritual.
It’s a hoax, it’s a swindle.
Looks like a lamb, but a jackal.
Count with one hand
the times I’ve been truthful.
Self-conceit is the trick,
self-deceit on the price-tag.
No receipt, no guarantees, no contact info.
Once you see the scheme through
nothing at all worth a second look.
I swear it’s all just a game.
Quick! Run away, don’t hesitate.
Go call the police, don’t think you are safe.
I’m a local treat, they all know my name.
They don’t know my address, I move around.
That reminds me, the next mark is in town.
Don’t come back till you have something to sale.
After all, this is a game that’s zero-sum.
Where love should be
all I feel is sadness.
Don’t know what’s wrong.
Mother did say life is suffering.
I don’t believe her, I mean
if I don’t think deeply,
let’s just count the cheers & grab the beers,
turn sad songs into funny stories.
Depressions hit suddenly.
All makes sense now, only darkly.
Switching out energy for ammunitions.
Shutting down hope for spiritual communications.
You see my eyes, I’m not here, not really.
Thousands miles away & no place to stay.
Thinking on the hurts & things that went wrong.
Present is dead & the future’s sold for a song.
Hope you have a way to deal with this.
Wherever there are lows the high awaits.
Change your mind by looking outside.
You’ve been here long enough, quit being such a weenie.
It cuts, it cuts, it laughs, it sparks.
Only the worst, twisted, so it works better.
Show me the bridge, I want to watch it burn.
You look like a caricature of a total fucking stranger.
What’s the matter with me. I got your apology right here.
Or I will keep it shut so you won’t use it against me later.
You’ve seen this before so guess this is just a comedy turn.
Tomorrow we can play mimes, memes, or just plain stupid.
Hating me, loving this, I swear this is just a period.
Raising it up, putting it down.
Need them fumes for this barely moving trunk.
Period is a time of consolidation. The various roles I played all crushing down and transformed into the shape of a woman. The ticking clock transports me back-and-forth, from the arena that I built for myself into a familiar little room with gray walls and gray lights. It happens in a kind of twilight under which, the harshness of life is moved to the front of the stage, and the weight is felt for my own mortality. I think it’s a pity that guys don’t get periods, they could benefit from its humbling side-effects.
I trust the outside world more while working hard ignoring my own chaotic thoughts. I seek comfort in the real world, relieved that there are still orders and props intact and there are real people living contently in it still. I’m grateful that the world that I sometimes happily stepped out of is still there when I need it. I can count on salmon bento-box for lunch and the local Japanese bookstore for hardcore Yaoi to satisfy my other craving. It’s easy to fantasize during period.
Yes, consolidations. As I was saying in the beginning, I feel like a little woman when I’m on period. My immediate concern has to do with not getting blood everywhere. It is a dream when I can be productive, but those times are closely followed by a feeling of exhaustion and defeat. Do you see yourself as one whole person all the time? I see myself as several. Nothing too crazy, just different parts of me having different strengths and yearnings. I find myself having to appease them by doing different things all the time like playing music, writing poem, meeting new people, doing new stuff. It can be going really well for 20 or so days in a month with all these characters going on their own tasks on their own slices of time, it’s the blood thing that unites them all. For a week or so, they all come home and be silenced, or they would tell their own stories around a bloody campfire. Then they would one by one set off again. (Sounds like a story from a Japanese horror manga now.)
It’s hard to admit to myself that I sometimes find myself dirty. I don’t want to admit it because that’s what some people think of women and they use that unexplained feeling of disquiet to discard women as an inferior animal. I don’t understand why I can’t just think myself out of these chores and hindrances. Why does anybody have to deal with anything? But maybe I’m just as scared as everybody else. There are things that control our lives which we prefer to forget. We don’t want to be reminded constantly of where we came from and where we are going. We look up to beauty because it hides the awful truth. But it’s OK for me now, I no longer judge things as they first appear, unless I’m on period, then my annoyance is justified because I’m high on life, the kind that will pay you back in kind.
I am a dirty woman, and I’m going to finish that juicy watermelon and re-read that delicious Yaoi that is full of half sentences.
Be like a flower.
Come forth proud
when the time is called.
or rain falls,
Stand tall together,
cast seeds for
the next hope.
Ready to grow
with nothing more
than the soil.
Like a flower,
*(You been warned. I blame spring.)