bad blood
it's possible to be excluded from your own body. to walk in late one night, switch on the lights and notice the furniture's been shifted around (if menace had a calling card, that would be it.) the rug of reassuring aches has slid up from the floor and turned into a painting on the wall, a pattern of blue needles, the taste of sharp corners. you turn to the bookshelf for comfort but the ink has all run. and someone's changed the lock on the downstairs door.
while you're out there collecting tricks and cue cards, your body has voted. you are spit out, the weakest link. so you hang out on the front porch and pretend you're picnicing. when neighbours walk past, you lean proprietarily on the railing, clip away at a stray rosebush. to explain your prolonged outdoor stay, you may even paint the house. give it a new look. after all, the outside is still yours. mend, straighten, shine on your sleeve. get used to sleeping under a faraway blanket.
people feel sorry for and occasionally even turned on by a person who lives on her porch. so you might get invited to a house around the corner. you might even make a long holiday of it. revel in the swept corners and refilled salt shakers. after a party someone else empties the ashtrays and stacks up the coasters. of course, someone else also invites the guests. and knows which malevolent hinge needs the weight of a shoulder and a quick unleaning to open. and which fussy piece of plumbing to watch out for. everytime your wrong key scrabbles frantically in the door outside, this strange house tells you, stay out. leave. find your own, leave us be.
you stand outside your own. the lights are on upstairs. they still work. a house sealed from you, though, is a bubble of concrete. if you must get in, you must violate. you can't slip in, no use here for insidious. the hip of its d gets stuck in the door. no, smash a window, tear up the floor. this house needs your violence. and scars only make it that much simpler to find the faultlines next time around. so come on home and let the muscle close over you. when it knots itself tight around a pound of flesh, pay up and tip the postman.
while you're out there collecting tricks and cue cards, your body has voted. you are spit out, the weakest link. so you hang out on the front porch and pretend you're picnicing. when neighbours walk past, you lean proprietarily on the railing, clip away at a stray rosebush. to explain your prolonged outdoor stay, you may even paint the house. give it a new look. after all, the outside is still yours. mend, straighten, shine on your sleeve. get used to sleeping under a faraway blanket.
people feel sorry for and occasionally even turned on by a person who lives on her porch. so you might get invited to a house around the corner. you might even make a long holiday of it. revel in the swept corners and refilled salt shakers. after a party someone else empties the ashtrays and stacks up the coasters. of course, someone else also invites the guests. and knows which malevolent hinge needs the weight of a shoulder and a quick unleaning to open. and which fussy piece of plumbing to watch out for. everytime your wrong key scrabbles frantically in the door outside, this strange house tells you, stay out. leave. find your own, leave us be.
you stand outside your own. the lights are on upstairs. they still work. a house sealed from you, though, is a bubble of concrete. if you must get in, you must violate. you can't slip in, no use here for insidious. the hip of its d gets stuck in the door. no, smash a window, tear up the floor. this house needs your violence. and scars only make it that much simpler to find the faultlines next time around. so come on home and let the muscle close over you. when it knots itself tight around a pound of flesh, pay up and tip the postman.
posted by Deepa at 11:48 PM
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