bear1nmind

[bear1nmind]

The fuck is up with dad's?

They're always mad about something. Their brows are always furrowed they never seem satisfied with anything. And everything their kids do is precieved as disrespect.

Forget to start your laundry?

It's on the dirty floor in front of the washing machine, cause his laundry is first priority.

Forget to return a spoon inti the sink?

You come home to find your room completely torn apart in an effort to find that one. singular. spoon.

Rough housing with your siblings all in good fun?

You're all sat down and told off for being unkind and callous.

[bear1nmind]

Right now, I obsess over love. Finding that perfect, special someone. Devoted to me. Worshiping me as though they never knew an atheists way. And I provide them with that same reciprocal.

Truly, authentically, enthralled with one another.

However, I'm barely considered a person within my own society. I don't have much of my own freedoms as others with more time on this earth. Yet for not being seen as my own person, my society shoves that expectation to find and lead a stable life with preferably a man. According to their ideals, a woman with a woman is still too much for the world to handle.

Am I even considered a woman? Or am I still a girl? Who knows, I'm a woman when they tell me I'm a woman. And a girl when they tell me I'm a girl. It's a vicious cycle of who said, you said,

she said,

he said,

they said... etc.

Nothing is finite in their eyes.

I feel like when I finally emerge into a truly defined woman, I will feel no need for external devotion. I'll have myself, and that'll be enough. And only then, when I begin to feel so independent, I'll meet the most wonderfully graceful person.

And they will consume me, and I'll feel guilty I can't provide them with those same feelings I felt so ready to give at 15. If only they met me then. But they met me now. And I have no room to share, even if I desperately want to.

Love is such a fickle thing.

[bear1nmind]

The Great Burn

The great burn.

Forever flaming, in the months dubbed cool, and crisp.

That big red eye glaring at you behind putrid yellow clouds. Sweltering smoke thickly coats your hair, your clothes, your throat.

Home is the only place to be clean, to be filtered out of the cellophane atmosphere.

And you sit there in the shower for what feels like hours. Knees under your chin, arms wrapped tightly around your shins, holding you close.

Clean.

[bear1nmind]

To think she'll be here.

She'll be miles from me.

I love her.

[bear1nmind]

Cider

Pent up. Closed off. I'm shaken. Thrown. Pushed. Toppled over.

Taken by my neck and I'm handled less than kind. I expand and take up space.

Only then do I take in the fragile glass that surrounds me. If I got any bigger, if I feel any bigger, I'd break. Shatter, the shrapnel cutting the of who I love.

This feeling fizzles out and I'm back to being quiet, complacent, and pleasant.

Preferred. Being preferred. To be praised for how I initially taste. How sweet, and pleasant I am, with just the right amount of bubbly disposition to enjoy me thoroughly. To prefer me.

And I sit there on my shelf. People pour me into them, on the basis that they "need me". Indulging in me, getting drunk on my willingness to serve.

Taking advantage of how much of me they can take. And when they're done they throw me out to be recycled. To be used.

Some break me whether they mean to or not. Some do as I mentioned earlier, throw me around to get a reaction. To watch me burst. I never do.

I stay quiet, complacent, and preferred.

[bear1nmind]

Deal with your daughters. Scold your sons. Spit in their eye.

Sour pus. Throbbing yellow bruises, Aching bones. Open wounds salted with mold, parasites

Crusted blood mats our hair, caking it in a brown clot atop our cracked skulls.

Rivers of pus, and fluids no kid deserves to see flow out of places in our bodies, we had no clues could even open up.

Rip open my stomach, scoop out my intestines, lay them on the table, eat them up, mix them in your marinara

Swallow your food.

Take a melon baller to my eyes. Pull them out and watch as their nerves cling to the inside of my sockets. Slice them like kiwis, eat my pupils first. Since they saw the world through an innocent lens. And nothing tastes better than childhood innocence.

Take pliers to my nails. Pull them from their unkempt beds, let that newborn flesh out into the world. Dip my naked nails into salt. Grind them into a fine powder, make me swallow it, make me snort it, letting the keratin scratch my sinuses.

Grab a razor find a loose piece of scalp. Dig into it, deep into it. Peel back my skin. Angle the blade into my skull.

Make me clean. Make me pure.

So you say to me. So you say to your child. This is the way to be good. To accept the pain, to accept the torture of coming of age. To be cleansed for the new age. That is something to strive for.

Something for you to get used to.

[bear1nmind]

I believe that when we die we don't go into an after life.

I think we're converted back into Stuff.

The stuff that made us, us.

Whether that's salt water, ceramic dust, Thanksgiving stuffing, or peach pits.

Who knows. I am made of Stuff and my Stuff is different than yours. The things that were mine are now the embodiment of my soul.

I also believe we travel through the cosmos as that Stuff, and the cosmos takes pieces of us and gives them to other souls in development. We're recycled not gone just another factor in the reproduction of the universe.

We are assets to creativity, logic, impression, humor, possession, love, all of that shapes and molds new lumpy imperfect souls.

I could be the smothered stuffed animal of a young child, or the musical cadence in a musician's head, I could even be the sticky residue of orange juice running down your forearm.

Because I see pieces of different people in different things whether they're alive or dead.

Like finding seashells on the beach that look like your family, eating a warm bowl of homemade soup, and breathing in firewood air that stings the inside of your nose. All of those things and experiences are reminders of the Stuff that makes up your soul and everyone else's souls. Even before death, the cosmos find ways to put pieces of other souls into you. And it's so beautiful.

I am content knowing that I will contribute to the creation and preservation of human souls l with the Stuff that makes me, me.