Sunday, May 27, 2012

Under Sunglasses

You say you’ll scrape and it will come to you again like that summer you always wished would be lost. The ghost was ready to pounce and chew.
“I don’t like it. I feel like it’s no longer about what I do, but how I look. That was one of the very things I first set out to rebel against.”
So she said, blinking tears from her ever-artistic, noble eyes. Or she could have just been tearing up from the flash.
How could I have known? That blue was blackened out by the tint that blocked out the sun.
Maybe she never had eyes to begin with.
There used to be glass pieces to walk on. They carpeted all of that down.
As soon as they stopped thinking the world went right again. Days aged with the skin. Expanding plot through otherwise plot-less scenarios. Making mountains move while no one was watching.
Every morning, normality would reign.
And everyone knows we don’t like it. Those fantasies we coddle and nurture with blood from our teats.
You say we heal and dreams come true all the time. There are always men waking up to pigs with butcher knives at their throats and women who wake up to dead husbands just like they’d always hoped. Reality is always making switches. Blurring edges. Stiffening girdles.
So you say.
Dots on my chest. The noun that verbed its way up to the adjective.
Pretentious eyebrows thick as your cock, darker than day.
Resolution. Charming epilogues. Feeling that for once, the mysteries of the world are known to you. Realizing that it’s all going to be alright.
Hoping it’s not all another dream.
“More than anything, I want to reach people, maybe even help them. That’s what makes all this shallow, masturbatory self-promotion worthwhile. ...Plus, I need the money.”
Cue laugh-track.

Caitlin Hoffman

Caitlin is a ball of neuroses morphed into human form. If you hunt around you might find her work in a few publications. You can follow her depravity @CHWrite on Twitter but are in no way obligated.

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