I yam what I yam, sweet [potato] nothings
by Charlotte E. Wilde
I woke up to greet my 6am, that summer narcism draped around my shoulders like a selfie when I’m marveling still at the curve of an uncharacteristically tanned stomach that contrasts sharply with the images in my head. Every morning is a surprise so I light myself a line of birthday candles and sing in my head until I feel like giving myself away like a present or an unexpected tip. I guess we’re all just hoping for some divine nod as having contributed something worthy to the human raffle, full of useless but coveted door-prizes.
Have I started a collection or has the collection started me? Easily forgotten, perhaps, how spelled out no-go zones for personal failures and far too similar minds stand up in the night like dominoes, falling at the lightest touch. But the music has a thousand hands like this mouth hot on my skin where whispers slide like raindrops and I pretend I’m too smart for that method. The madness, I know it well, yet I’m leaning and this time hesitation holds me shaking still while I learn what desire can do to hungry limbs.
What lines divide love and lush, lifetime and lust? Nothing lives up to the image in your head; the unknown is only as perfect as you imagine it. Still, tantalizing futures line up like raspberries on my fingers and I’ve got enough to share so you close your lips around me and tell me how sweet [they] taste.
But don’t look now– age drives us all back into the ground, 6ams to 6-feet-unders and we’re all just circling the brain drain of Insta-famous friendships and selfie encoded vanity.
A leg or a fast, it’s all the same in the dark when alcohol augments the maybe-so’s, ugly becomes a bit more bearable, and the words from my mouth get lost in the sway until I’ve given some poor soul the impression I’m something worth talking to. Add an accent to some eyelashes and watch the havoc that it wreaks but careful, this one looks fragile, child-like, with hands made for holding and shoulder blade-wings aching for a guiding arm. If I were a net they’d use me to catch sharks, not butterflies.
But self-awareness doesn’t enable escape; beauty remains inversely related to quality of character, which explains why mine is rotten clear through. Something about being appreciated brings out the worst in me. Narcissism peoples minds like poppy fields, drunk on its own taste.
I warned you and you knew it well. Like a spider I spin stories in my sleep, still you can’t help but stop to read your horoscope written in the constellations of my freckles.
(Won’t you come and taste the sky.)
We’re wilting, but there’s beauty in the chaos of the mess.