Thursday, February 19, 2009

Feast of Me

This is still a work in progress, most likely simply an excerpt of a larger piece. This is its unedited, raw version.

Feast of Me

You were so organized, you knew how to store pieces of me, package them up for use at a later time, a meal that you would devour when it suited your dietary needs. And in these small Tupperware containers lay pieces of me designated by you, words that became my titles—Mondays you would consume the package of me labeled, “Idiocy,” the me you had so trampled I became this downtrodden being who mindlessly believed in such an inscription. These plastic containers of me were each topped with a blue cover so tightly closed that the meager air in my lungs were depleted and metamorphosing into carbon dioxide, my face turning the color of the cover and yet you would not release it or me. I was to placidly remain within the confines of the box you placed me in, to be followed by a daily feast of “Worthless,” “Defect,” “Toxic,” “Pathetic,” “Human Stain”. And every once in a while, on a sunny Sunday, you would look in the freezer for my remains, my hands ashen, the tips a deep purple, and you would recall the labels you had once designated for me, encompassing such adjectives as “Beautiful”, “Intelligent” “Strong” “Courageous” and in these fleeting moments you would remove the Tupperware of me and thaw the carcass of my past self in hopes of reviving the various parts of me that you still yearned to devour, licking your lips, your tongue caressing your yellowing teeth. Oh what a cannibalistic feast I became, you tearing at the various fragments of me, forgetting all the while that under these labels, this fragmented self, I lay. In your amnesiac state, in your cannibalistic state, you forgot that the me that had been a part of you was languishing and withering away and that the very instant the last ice particles would thaw, the solid state turning into this dirty liquid of me, I would trickle down your black, granite, kitchen countertops and slink toward the door, escaping this feast of me, leaving you hungry and wanting.

1 comment:

  1. Oreet, I really like this style. Sort of a prose poem? I don't really know what to call it, but it suits you. I had a very crazy week, and I will post something recapping it on the blog in a day or two. I miss you! Heart, Alaina.