arguscallous

[arguscallous]

When I was nine, I walked (barefoot) into our backyard (ninety percent wooden decking and concrete) to play an imaginary game (with imaginary friends).

My quest item (a yellow plastic bucket), precious, was filled with magic elixir (three days of rainwater) that needed to be delivered (carried in both hands, brow furrowed in concentration) to the queen (a hackberry tree).

After a perilous journey, and many voes vanquished (splinters removed) i arrived at the den of riches (a collection of leaves and empty bottles) to find i had been beaten to my quarry by a fearsome enemy (a bee).

The chalice (of plastic) held life or death within (bees can't swim) and I was god (help it out) (help it out).

I am ancient now (thirty-one is withered and frail to nine) and reflecting on my brush either power (help it out) (help it out) and with fear (will it sting me). I was a coward then (I was nine), and I couldn't extend a hand to my enemy (or a twig). I yielded (tipped the bucket out) and my enemy was washed away (water like a tidal wave to the bee).

Failure. (Fear)

-- inspired by @nosebleedclub prompt for April 18 Hymenoptera [the order of insects including wasps, bees and ants]

[arguscallous]

Did you mean it, that quiet bright night of nine years old, when you tucked me into bed? Do you wonder if I hate you, now?

I thought you were gone, and everyone just forgot to tell me.

I learned your grandmother, woman who raised us both, died three years after the fact, in an argument with a man I don't know how you loved.

I learned it was a quiet funeral, not many mourners. Were you there? Did you say goodbye for all of us? Did you make sure she knew I still care?

Would you judge me for missing you, for how I miss you? Only on lonely nights, only when I remember how cold it gets up here. Only when the blanket is the weight of the world. The child left in me still remembers you like that, the only thing stood between myself and gravity.

Did you try your best? I want to believe you did, you know? I want to believe you tried and tried, and it just wasn't enough. I want to think I was worth trying for, and for you to tell me I'm not being selfish.

[arguscallous]

I find peace in kneading, in dirty hands and full sinks, in smile stretched mouths with crumbs kissing cheeks. I know what I'm worth, learned with the first "good job," earned standing on a creaky wooden chair, with that first foray into dough sticky fingers.

I remember a home that was never really mine, and go in circles debating if I have the right to mourn; I wasn't wanted, but god did I want.

I had a beloved bedtime story, and it went like this;

Three cups of flour, one tablespoon of powdered milk, one and a half of baking powder, a teaspoon of salt. Slowly mix in two cups of warm water. Knead until those words bubbling in your gut are trapped in the dough instead. Rest, shape, fry.

I heard it first in rasping grandmother's voice, I tell it to myself not enough and too much.

[arguscallous]

I feel like milk teeth, a part of a whole; they exist, they serve their purpose, they fall away.

I feel like the eighth wash of paint on canvas; the tone is set, the shadows are past, the highlights are just ahead.

I feel like a process, and am scared that the artist is ashamed; the snarls and burrs in this rough woven scarf are too much, and I will be unraveled. I would not allow myself rage, knowing that undoubtedly the thread would be better spent.

I feel like I am the artist, and that turns fear to dread. I have never finished a project in my life and do not intend to start now.

Do you feel complete?

[arguscallous]

I pretend that my heart is a small animal, sheltered in the cavern of my body; each pump of blood another weary snap of teeth. I pretend that this animal has been injured, and the cavern of my body is it's only refuge. And it hurts still, but less now; it has weathered storm after storm, and always I allow myself pride at how well I've protected it. How could I be anything but? I am the animal. I am the haven. I am happy with what I could do.

[arguscallous]

I dream like pulling teeth, I dream of pulling teeth

One by one out my skull, bare the pain and make myself beautiful, make a bloody smile quiet and dainty and meek and everything a lady should be

I dream of helplessness, nightmare and a hope; what if I couldn't fight? What if this fear of my body was ripped out? Would you love me if I was properly weak, if you had no reason to cower?

What if I cut away these rough edges, took sandpaper to the cracks. What if I turned broken bottles into sea glass.

[arguscallous]

Does the caterpillar die, sitting in her chrysalis?

It's a change. It's an ache, running up and down my spine; remembering the differences, what used to be. The body eating itself, bit by bit, designing it's own future.

I refuse to let it be death.

What died inside of you?

[arguscallous]

Today is my favorite kind of day;

The snow floods the sidewalk, becomes mush under our shoes, becomes white spots against brown fabric, becomes childish glee.

Our work is done, no specter of responsibility to haunt our doorways. We belong to ourselves, today.

I sit, comfortably quiet, with a bowl of soup. You sit, blissfully, with me.

[arguscallous]

@nosebleedclub 's March prompts. #28, Ouroborus.

Resurrecting myself again and again, snap crackle pop-ing fingers slip between the cracks of the old headstone, knock on wood and the rotten coffin presents itself, a showman;

"Come one, come all, see the beast Ouroboros! Watch as Past consumes Present, as Tail becomes Maw!"

Line up the beer bottles and grab that old peashooter, one new day for every piece of shattered glass. Pick up the scattered reflections like pulling teeth and isn't that a fun one, white coats and irrational fear.

How long can the body rest before "memory" becomes "theft," how many photo frames cracked, how many repetitions of

that's not me it's not me it's not not me

Catch the double negatives, ball 'em up in your fist with a kiss for good luck, send off the poor fuck they adored and pray with us now

it's not me it's not me it's not not not me

[arguscallous]

Today, I pretend to be someone else:

She adores sundresses, wearing them over jeans and under trenchcoats to hide from the chill. She cooks, bakes, lives for any excuse to create; to feed the people she loves.

She doesn't fight, knows when to be meek, to hunch her shoulders; turn the bulk into softness again, strength a quirk rather than a threat. Her hugs are only a little too tight.

She has a sweet voice, never quite outgrew her stutter; words slipping off her tongue too fast, tangled. It's charming, when she does it; poor thing is trying so hard.

I miss myself, when we have to be her; the slow monotone of my words, beating along to our heart. The possessiveness she can't show no matter how hard we both want. Her teeth cover mine, sheep dull over ragged fox.

[arguscallous]

Another thing to run from, filled with enough nothing to choke on; gasping on the void.

A horror story until it's a comedy, tragedy plus time.

The last place I felt safe, then the monster crawling in my stomach.

The house as

[arguscallous]

@nosebleedclub 's February prompts. #28, memorial.

Today, I'll remember how your hand felt, on the edge of cold from sweating in that too hot autumn afternoon. I'll remember playing cards, an intricate game I didn't know the name of; just that you'd laugh, and it sounded like home.

I want to forget about the rum in my veins, how you always looked a little sad; how I couldn't justify it without spilling too many secrets. We were already soaked, saturated in the night.

Tomorrow, next month, next year; I'll work up the courage to call you again. Not yet, not yet; I'm not ready. You must be so busy anyway, you were always better than me. College graduate, and I'm just lucky to be here.

Today, there's a dress hanging in the closet; I think you'd like seeing me in it.

[arguscallous]

Just one, really;

When will it feel like enough? These hands can't possibly ache forever, can they. The light on the horizon with shine bright, glorious someday. Someday your knee will bump innocently against mine, and it will feel like peace.

How long do I have to wait, how many red X's on the calendar. I want to know the anniversary; celebrate the shift from this to a semblance of okay.

What are your questions?

[arguscallous]

Today, I made soup; a mother's recipe, still gripping her childs hand.

Yesterday, my skull was rotting from the inside; I will taste blood until the gape in my gums heals.

She taught me how to hold a knife, how to knead bread until our shoulders ached, how leftover batter could be made into a treat just for us.

I learned how to do laundry when I lived alone, I've watched hours of YouTube tutorials learning to clean, I still don't remember to brush my teeth.

I don't think she was perfect. The soup is pretty good, though.

What is perfect?

[arguscallous]

Remember how small you were, both of us little birds? Banajaanh; fresh from the nest, winter still staining your cheeks

Chirping that bright laugh, honey sticky hands clapping. We ate sweetbread, black rice and maize

It's foreign on my tongue, now.

[arguscallous]

I have to believe there's joy, that hope is still here; still alive

One day these tears will be happy! My family will be strong, my lovers will be safe

I will smile more than scream, I will help again. None of the mouths around me will go hungry.

[arguscallous]

@nosebleedclub 's February prompts. #6, instead of you.

Like a flower in my palm, little one. Torn grass thrown in the wind, stained fingers and dirt under our nails.

Dandelions, still yellow; still alive. Your favorite flower, if anyone asked. If you ever sat in the field, hand clutching anyone else's.

If, instead of you; the little girl they wanted lived.

Changeling child, left the bed empty and cold. Grew up, angry and cold.