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Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her parents loved her very much and didn’t love her at all, so she changed many different times, jumping through every open door like a prized show-dog. Kind words rewarded her efforts, and she picked their letters apart, pretending they were grains of magic rice. She ate and grew older, and wore a crown of little stars she picked up somewhere like a bad habit that stuck anyway. It gave her hope that she was special, and that her parents loved her more than they didn’t.
With daisy chain constellations lighting her way, she got so good at slipping through the keyholes that she didn’t have to change anymore, and thus she was complete: exactly as she was raised to be. She was kind, and polite, and obedient, and sensitive, and cheerful through anything.
The river queen, the moon-goddess, the girl of many lives - she was immaculate in her execution. She carried a shield and wore a plague-mask to fend off the disease that tried so hard to ensnare her but never could. She thought that she would never grow up! Imagine that, she thought that she would never grow up!
As long as she could still trick magic rice and moonbeams from the mouths of her parents, she knew she could keep on living. Always too young for tragedy, her optimism turned even cruelty to sugar. And life was sweet, and it was rigid. Her limbs began to calcify into those of a porcelain doll’s until she barely could move through things that weren’t hoops. Her smile solidified, welding her face to the mask she wore. She was happy, of course - exactly as she was raised to be.
When her older brother took her away from her mother and father and their abuse, she no longer knew who she was or why she was alive. Staring at the series of doors she once leapt through, now closed forever, she cried off her mask and pried off her crown and let him brush out her hair. It was the colour of ink and cornflowers.
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GriefI rememberChildish doodles of wolves in classTracing dragons and carving stampsA childhood unburdenedBy the world I rememberNotebooks full of daydreamsThings to hide from parentsNotes passed in class and games on the playgroundA mind brightWith inspiration and promise I rememberA child faster than any otherCatching lizardsRunning laps and playing tagA body unbrokenBy timeEyes Eyes In the warehouse, seventeen dozen are buried alive. Eyes and ears are everywhere, with walls of glass too. And pillars of steel that burst out of the ground like the once-tall trees, their bodies sacrificed for the structure. Even in the little cabinets, where the components of flesh-and-blood are stored, the parts are watched.Xeroxed colonnades form three units. Each unit has seventeen cabinets. Four people share eight point seven five square metres.The parts, with their thick scales of oxides, many choose to shed this and go bare.In the halls outside, a few might be spotted lying on cold faux-wood flooring layered over the concrete. With the shutters of the cabinets sealing shut and the overloaded cabinets, like a mass grave, many choose to stay outside.When one does well, the eyes bring us into the small containers, fit for a single person. I hear whispers which drift through the thick, humid air of the compound. Air like memories of long-past summers. Not because of the ravishing sun and torturous rain. But because the mere thought of these distant, yet so carefree memories chokes me, strangles me, like the wires that get plugged into my neck. Such whispers are like smoke from a fireplace, albeit I have only ever seen a fireplace in containers.“In the rooms, it is glass, through visions of lush artificial grasslands, speckled with stationary cattle, blue skies, unmoving clouds, and ancient spinning machines they call ‘windmills’. In a grotto, azure waters, near plastic beaches and the never-ending sun.”When one does not-well, the eyes bring us to little facilities to help us. Tranquil music, visions of grandeur and opulence. When we leave, they remove the faulty cores from the machine components, replace them, and renew them.Sometimes, the eyes in the cabinets go blind. When this happens, rusted fluid leaks from those cabinets, and the stench of licentiousness and depravity wafts.In such days,It is day; I toil.It is night; I ponder.It is day; I slave.It is night; I ruminate.As my arms dangle off the spiralling railings, and I look towards the sky, skies of diodes, inky black, I wonder if anything changes.I long to break this cycle.I long to be shipped off.But I know I cannot.They might let me, but I cannot let myself. After all, what am I without all of this? What is there to return to? How much is there left of me anymore?The Mute BoyThe words that once flowed from him,With his many stories and tales.Have all but stopped now. His once talkative nature,Cut down with harsh words.No longer wishing to,Tell his tale. Voice meant to be spoken,Now shunned by those,That should have listened.From the very beginning. All the stories and tales.Now dusk laid within his mind.Never wishing to speak again.A talkative child, turned mute. He looks and goes to speak,But can't bring himself to do so.Afraid that once again,He'll be silenced. A sweet boy,Now turned bitter.A smart boy,Now looked at as stupid. He is none of these,For sure he knows this.All he wants in life,Is to speak knowing thatSomeone will listen and understand. All his life he's been talkative.Now within his teenage life,He has changed to fit those ofOlder, much "wiser" groups. His talkative ways,Now crushed with silence.If only he'd seen the true beautyThat came from his stories and tales. His silence has caused damage,To those that truly loved to listen.Muting his voice has done nothing butProve that he tries too hard,Making everyone else happy.But himself. A talkative child no longer,Wishing to join in on conversation.Choosing to stay behind,Left within his own mind.Where his voice is heard all the while.Though it's just him and his thoughts.But at least there, someone listens.