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#prepschool
Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic: stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not construct your own set-pieces; instead you pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the next as you delicately stride from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to window to mirror to mirror to mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all- and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no answer because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self to mirror to self to mirror to mirror the self. What was it that you were looking for if all it does is lead you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff- perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning bell rings impossibly on time like the last breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in America I use words to remind you of the little unreachables of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly snow-pale skin, where somewhere in America and somewhere on your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think are little but we both know are big because you are not plastic.                                                At nighttime our feet skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies like thoughts that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship. Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily skate across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We arrive at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science classrooms. We hope to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn   and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge separation- make apparent the light from the dark                         the firmament from the void                         the flesh from the plastic, the- here we are as you talk about your family and I try my best to look you in the eye so I can become your eyes even when normally I am so vehemently against staring at the soul-gates of another being- here we are as you talk; God is still missing from the centrifuge of the endlessly turning world- your axis is your skin yet you trust it not. The salads without dressing,         the weighing scales,         the taste of bile at the back of your throat- all for skin that        you do not       trust. All for flesh that you think is plastic so      you      cut.                     Enough talk because the bell cuts through the flesh of our conversation. Enough talk because the world insists on turning still and forcing us to revolve with it. Enough breathing, enough snow, enough life. I remember you saying that the ratios of your face are wrong; that certain equilibriums do not exist between your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the statistical neatness with which your family decomposes; the problem with our conception of perfect is how awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to see. The ratios of your face which you think are broken are the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it exists. The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections- strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes, even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red, gasping grand-canyons of flesh, of human, of breathing clay flesh-            never plastic;             always worthy.                            Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder, telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning, my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick- the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s snowing outside and it’s lovely.
0
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
tawandamulalu
Ratios.
Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic: stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not construct your own set-pieces; instead you pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the next as you delicately stride from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to window to mirror to mirror to mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all- and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no answer because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self to mirror to self to mirror to mirror the self. What was it that you were looking for if all it does is lead you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff- perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning bell rings impossibly on time like the last breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in America I use words to remind you of the little unreachables of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly snow-pale skin, where somewhere in America and somewhere on your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think are little but we both know are big because you are not plastic.                                                At nighttime our feet skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies like thoughts that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship. Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily skate across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We arrive at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science classrooms. We hope to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn   and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge separation- make apparent the light from the dark                         the firmament from the void                         the flesh from the plastic, the- here we are as you talk about your family and I try my best to look you in the eye so I can become your eyes even when normally I am so vehemently against staring at the soul-gates of another being- here we are as you talk; God is still missing from the centrifuge of the endlessly turning world- your axis is your skin yet you trust it not. The salads without dressing,         the weighing scales,         the taste of bile at the back of your throat- all for skin that        you do not       trust. All for flesh that you think is plastic so      you      cut.                     Enough talk because the bell cuts through the flesh of our conversation. Enough talk because the world insists on turning still and forcing us to revolve with it. Enough breathing, enough snow, enough life. I remember you saying that the ratios of your face are wrong; that certain equilibriums do not exist between your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the statistical neatness with which your family decomposes; the problem with our conception of perfect is how awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to see. The ratios of your face which you think are broken are the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it exists. The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections- strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes, even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red, gasping grand-canyons of flesh, of human, of breathing clay flesh-            never plastic;             always worthy.                            Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder, telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning, my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick- the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s snowing outside and it’s lovely.
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