Eleanor Eli Moss
Today is a painful fractal in the corner of my vision. Ruffians whoop & holler in the streets at rumors of my untimely demise. “Normal” is a slur & a fallacy. When it comes right down to it, I like to think that I’m a good person, sure, but then I wake up. The morning sunlight wings my temple & turns my excuses to stone. All of my bloodstains are right where I left them. My loneliness did not stay the night. A warm dawn sweeter than any romance. What else is there to do but try to make it.
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Today is especially vivid. Everything is warped by nostalgic preconceptions. Sleep becomes a bit more subjective. In the right light, your face looks exactly like your face. This is just the kind of day a little goblin like me really loves, for a variety of reasons. & if you must know, everything being especially vivid is not one of them.
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Today, we’ve sectioned off our own private graveyard down the hall. Skeletons wreathed in only the finest of moss. Not a politician in sight. There’s always someone causing trouble in here. Too many worries in the tall branches. Not enough natural light. I get it. Sometimes that’s just how it is. Sometimes the knife isn’t sharp enough. You could cause trouble in here too, if you really wanted. Are you free tomorrow evening?
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Today is the word TRUST carved into the side of a parked car. A kind of cutting-open springs to mind. A dead body rusts in the poppy field of my mind & a breath mint basks in the glow of my hot tongue. I sneak up behind myself and cover my own mouth. You’re okay, I whisper into my own ear. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. But I never stop trying to scream.
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Today we are a gang of feral cats in the street with flowers in our mouths. We know nothing & accomplish even less. Isn’t this nice?
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Today, everyone is wondering exactly what I meant when I said that I’m running out of knives. Which is fair.
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Today is either a violent sadness or lust. We can’t tell yet. The smell of strawberries is wandering through everyone’s homes. Everything feels like an endless cycle of trauma, or maybe we’re just horny. We’re strangling ourselves with a doom of our own making & we can’t tell if we like it. But we’re turning such a lovely shade of anxiety. Every one of us is missing the point, & that is exactly the point.
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Today, we bear witness. There’s a line of tiny hands. The candlelight licks at their fingernails. There’s a line out the door. See? It’s inelegant. Wasted space & outside voices. Backlit head fuzz, an open casket & a line. The aforementioned tiny hands. Neighborhood dogs are barking at these people and their tiny hands. They’re just standing here, in line. More or less in line. This right here is what the fuck is up. This is bigger than magic hour. A late blooming. Rasp, rasp, rasp on polished wood. Dark eye circles. Plain black T-shirt. There is a line out the goddamn door. This is bigger than wind power. It all just happened like this. It’s not even anyone’s birthday. How far do you think we are from seawater, even? This is what I mean. Look at this shit. Press these tiny hands all together in the same spot & we could kill God. This is everything we’ve been building. & you’re missing it. I can only stay awake for so long. Every one of these people is going to die. But they’ll always have tiny hands. Anyway, call me back.
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