|
The floor is strewn with papers and I have to watch my step. They are the unwritten poems, the unread words, the will-never-hear-of phrases that both assault and escape my ears at the same time. My eyes red, my nose dripping, allergic to my thoughts. Barely feeling the paper slice and dice my toes as I wade through my limited imagination. Like my papercut it is sharp, bitter, and impersonal, but heals all too quickly. That is, unless it’s on a knuckle. I bend with that knuckle, flex, bounce back, crack. Not too fat. The pages and pages of nothing drift higher in their taunting and daunting task. Soon I bleed from the papercuts, red liquid weeping from my skin, mingling with white until words appear. On my arms, neck, fingers, eyelids, scalp, on my face. My lips crack and the sandpaper that replaced my tongue offers no relief. Nor does my empty mind. The sea of white shifts, carrying me on its back for a ride. No surrender, no white flag among a desert of them. Slowly drowning from the passion or compassion I once controlled. The parchment fills my mouth, my nose, my lungs until I can no longer see my silent slayer. Mustering up my weakness, I take in my last gasp and....I sneeze. Lisa Game, 1999 |