“THIS SHIMMERING NOTHING”
I could still be something, you know?
This life could be different.
I could risk side-stepping dirty sidewalk pennies.
I could have nothing to say in lieu of rushed explanation.
I could slink out from the pitiful side-long glances;
the understanding smirks; the stares.
As sure as there is a honey-dipped sun, I could ride off into a satisfying horizon.
I could still be something, you know.
Oh, would you look at that:
Still all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
even when
wisdom has its hooks in me.
Even when
The American Dream is selling it to me
all frothing, sugar cane-crusted
to my bloodied pulp of a mouth.
But that’s all right. Sugar or blood, everything has a sour taste in sickness, doesn’t it? Even love.
Especially love—my chest a drum:
Yes sir, it beats so loud because it’s so hollow!
Do you know what it’s like? This shimmering nothing?
It only costs everything.
But back to the point:
I would have my lovely-eyed revenge.
I would have my every breath be a rebellion, a centerpiece—a spinning starlet—of my taciturn will.
I would have my inevitability in this world.
And I would be a litany incarnate saying,
always saying,
Do not take me for granted again.
Yet only in icy watercolor dreams do the faceless naysayers never transgress, never falter. And me?
Lord help me, I always transgress. I always
falter.
“Mirrors Are Tricky Things”
I glance my reflection and seethe and loathe.
In my dreams, I had already killed her.
But the look on her face stayed with me all day…
A look
like an accusation, like a promise I had failed to keep.
The mirror pokes a cold, glass finger to my bloated
cheek, shrieks with unmitigated laughter, says,
“Honey, you look like the rest of your fucking life!”
And ain’t that the goddamn truth.
And I think: Kill the lights! Bring on the black!
…But I mean to tell myself I know. I know I sure as hell don’t have gold filling the cracks, but that there must be something inside holy enough
to keep me all glued together. To seep light through the shards,
to refract it back.
And I am also trying to honor whatever pain claws me
from my other about-face turn. My serendipity, my trip fantastic.
I am trying very hard.
Mirrors are tricky things.
Katie Larson (she/her) is a disabled 24-year-old woman and native Californian. She is an aspiring writer, poet, and mixed media artist. She has been previously published in FLARE Magazine for her photography.
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