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funny-upset-clown · 3 years

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sheep bleat

Do you feel like standing still?

Can you please count the amount of times I say seven?

I say seven because it's the word I chose to say.

I say it to hear it, not knowing how you will

After all, how could I? Seven.

I like to think of seven because of the way it sounds in my mouth, like it's running and drooling at the same time: seven. Or surely it's the V in the center. V is my favorite letter because it is made of two symmetrical lines and perhaps their first and only intersection. The V is the top part of the X, the X being what happens if the lines continue in their independent directions.

Seven. There is symmetry to the word seven, a facial-symmetry. Both of the E’s are in the same spot and the S and the N on either end are as similar in shape as any two ears. Of course though, symmetry loses intrigue faster than you can say seven for… (stop counting!) the seventh time.

When I was around the age of seven I would lay and look around my room tracing objects and slowly I’d find myself breathing into every corner of the ceiling. My breath, rubbing the walls with residual nerve endings from my lungs as air carried it like a ghost whose hair still grows,

I could feel the popcorn-wall with my bronchioles! My breath would meet things with its body. It was because at that time, texture was God.

This is how I feel about you. Um.

You are not whatever was easy about this normal quiet,

nor were you like the body flourishing again.again.again.against walls, no, I wouldn't find my petals bending upward like the welled up swoop like in some Abba song, and no texture upon me would be jesting. You are not this easy, you are not one to host spawning-particle-sized-cherubs delivering warm-rough, warm, soft-warm in small living spaces. You were hardly warm- or was it me- Nor me! Im hardly this : warm

But um- I feel overwhelmed- and

I feel some other texture… or rather this bloating of a room… with breath, still!

I put tinsel on my tree and I think of you and your crying. And the grid we put up on the sky over the places we’ve lived. I suck on tinsel and kiss it and tie it around molars and my intestines tie it to my muscle till tinsel kills me in the awkward morbidity of slow sickness, for months! I would be bedridden and mom and dad sitting by me with twisted faces holding my bloated hand with a trembling there-ness.

For they were. They were there. And it was a stink that filled the room. all the while I kept quiet of the tinsel for what could I say? And the reason, my doctor says as he enters the huddled space of the shadowed-thereness of my family, is constipation. She is being enveloped by excrement from the inside, it's woven by rainbow tinsel, in fact it could be a tapestry!- The devil! Shouts my grandfather. It's the work of the devil! I’ve always prayed for her, I wrote her letters! I did!

I used to put tinsel in my hair as a seven year old. When the white kids did it, it hung like the first direction of a perfect grid, allowing them to feel. . .shiny? Um, slick? Cool? In my hair: it was like a beast had run through some trash in a hurry. If I put tinsel in my hair now, or ate it, or let it eat me, I would still resemble a beast probably. For I am.

And tinsel. . . like you and your noises. . and your gooey gunks and your sayings and your “shhh”

tinsel loves to wh h h i-i sper

Then twistandrun

and cling. In maneuvers of violently sudden iridescence- a perfect-manufactured/maneuvering-thing to make me feel like a little-tiny-beast.

I picture myself as a lamb, sometimes, if I'm feeling funny. And I like to think of being seven- or the word seven- saying it: s s e vv-en. And having lain in a room as my breath coats the walls, a breath yet to learn to write in cursive, curode, yet to reflect in a color like purple or green or charcoal

some virgin breath someone might say.

I also picture tinsel when you call and

I feel like ble-e-ating.

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