aging out of the 20th century // pinnochio & perry
Dec 18, 2020 17:58:14 GMT -5
Post by fox on Dec 18, 2020 17:58:14 GMT -5
i feel like i haven't changed.
i swore i could feel calcified life being pearled in my skeleton when spring came. hot summer rays made my head spin, then came autumn, i fell out of trees with the leaves, like if a wind could just blow me away from here.
it's winter. almost my birthday.
will i ever feel like i'm my age.
when i turned seventeen, i counted the candles of stuff i'd missed; i've never learned how to use an axe or kiss or live. there's scars on my palms, on my elbow from when i broke my arm -- when the seasons change, insects go through metamorphosis -- when will i shed my skin from all the cuts made not so accidentally?
when i turned six, i learned how to climb a tree. or was it because i could climb trees, i was six?
i dust off the books underneath my bed. there's A History of Panem pre-revision, The Vanquished, Moonrise, People of the Mounds, the spine is still tight. my dad used to read this one to us. modern literature antiquated by the capitol when the author became anti-games. there were fairies and restless dead in the woodlands, our district the image of a midsummer forest in the book.
it's one a.m. and i haven't changed -- dealing with boredom with dealing with contraband. i'm neither here or there, i guess, someone between birthdays, between childhood, adulthood, adulthood and old enough to live a life without the reaping. transitory, but unchanging. somehow, i've grown less than a fly on the wall. somehow, i've lived less.
i open my window, slide down the drain pipe with People of the Mounds bouncing in my bag. i light a cigarette at the bottom.
the trees are white and blue behind me, untouched by symmetrical formations for lumber. somewhere there are fairies making shoes in the roots and trunks, a harbinger of death screeching with the crows that didn’t migrate in the fall, my dad, taken to the realm of the west.
maybe i want to keep this book.
the wool of my coat feels scratchy on winter skin when the bar envelopes the air. drunk men clink glasses, start fights, settle down, underpaid staff drink in the bathroom, diluting vodka with tap water. i flip the coins in my pocket, asking will i. will i not. i have some juice in the basement of the bar.
shit, how many books were lost to people like me.
i play quarters with my empty glass. it's two a.m.
i didn't learn business the way mom wanted me to. i learned how to play with coins at cocktail parties, bouncing them off black wood tables into gold-rimmed cups imported from district one itself. i learned how to tune out banal euphemisms to be nice to the other kids, feed boredom with bizarre daydreams of ancient animals uprooting themselves and shaking the earth. i think about all the times i pictured the redcap with a scythe from the pages of this book.
tails, i'll leave.
before the coin lands, someone slides into the seat across from me.
i swore i could feel calcified life being pearled in my skeleton when spring came. hot summer rays made my head spin, then came autumn, i fell out of trees with the leaves, like if a wind could just blow me away from here.
it's winter. almost my birthday.
will i ever feel like i'm my age.
when i turned seventeen, i counted the candles of stuff i'd missed; i've never learned how to use an axe or kiss or live. there's scars on my palms, on my elbow from when i broke my arm -- when the seasons change, insects go through metamorphosis -- when will i shed my skin from all the cuts made not so accidentally?
when i turned six, i learned how to climb a tree. or was it because i could climb trees, i was six?
i dust off the books underneath my bed. there's A History of Panem pre-revision, The Vanquished, Moonrise, People of the Mounds, the spine is still tight. my dad used to read this one to us. modern literature antiquated by the capitol when the author became anti-games. there were fairies and restless dead in the woodlands, our district the image of a midsummer forest in the book.
it's one a.m. and i haven't changed -- dealing with boredom with dealing with contraband. i'm neither here or there, i guess, someone between birthdays, between childhood, adulthood, adulthood and old enough to live a life without the reaping. transitory, but unchanging. somehow, i've grown less than a fly on the wall. somehow, i've lived less.
i open my window, slide down the drain pipe with People of the Mounds bouncing in my bag. i light a cigarette at the bottom.
the trees are white and blue behind me, untouched by symmetrical formations for lumber. somewhere there are fairies making shoes in the roots and trunks, a harbinger of death screeching with the crows that didn’t migrate in the fall, my dad, taken to the realm of the west.
maybe i want to keep this book.
the wool of my coat feels scratchy on winter skin when the bar envelopes the air. drunk men clink glasses, start fights, settle down, underpaid staff drink in the bathroom, diluting vodka with tap water. i flip the coins in my pocket, asking will i. will i not. i have some juice in the basement of the bar.
shit, how many books were lost to people like me.
i play quarters with my empty glass. it's two a.m.
i didn't learn business the way mom wanted me to. i learned how to play with coins at cocktail parties, bouncing them off black wood tables into gold-rimmed cups imported from district one itself. i learned how to tune out banal euphemisms to be nice to the other kids, feed boredom with bizarre daydreams of ancient animals uprooting themselves and shaking the earth. i think about all the times i pictured the redcap with a scythe from the pages of this book.
tails, i'll leave.
before the coin lands, someone slides into the seat across from me.
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