She is a block of stubborn marble
being sculpted to a certain design,
to a certain direction,
to a figure that speaks a different
message from what she intended,
from her transcendental essence –
With each hammer-strike another part of her is
ticked off, important pieces that the artist
dismisses; the pieces she cradled within the walls
of her prison,
of her person,
The fleshing of she not being she as
limbs and torso and intellect function only through commands and demands,
this precious stone, this block, this cell,
this compact arrangement of atoms that
thirst delicate fingers of art, of feeling,
of anything but this undulating hollowness
the fraud calls Still Life
Who are we to decide what we deserve in this world? When all we’ll ever do will never be enough to satisfy the essence of the word. Deserve. What does it mean? It’s such a delicate word where you roll your tongue towards the end. Like the taking of what it is due where you coil your arm outward and sweep it back to your base; like a kiss for a heroic: a type of currency where you exchange things of varying values and try to cheat the other that your item deserves to be traded for his item, as if they are of the same forge and temper and copper.
There it is again.
That word. Deserve.
So easily drawn from your vocabulary, without a second thought, the word feels like the only one you could use in that sentence, like it should be lightly used without it’s many consequences or your many pretexts that indeed, it can be the appropriation of your fleeting feelings that you claim I deserve so much.
What do you know of what I deserve?
What do you know of the word itself?
We live on the same planet, the same soil, the same goddamn city, and yet we are far away like the north and the south. We are the ends of two poles constantly tugging at the same rope, expectantly at when it will end and the other would turn up – breathless as the day of flushed confessions and the sweeping of feet from under our unguarded of moments – yet coming up with nothing, just the unruly confusion of the disentangled stub because the hour that you started to pull was the hour I stopped, as our body clocks succumbed to different whenevers. And each time this cycle rotates back to the beginning, each time the other throws the line back the other end, there is another grain of unintended hurt tucked away in the chambers of our hearts which cannot be helped. We are two people enamored by the closeness we share, the love we profess, the time we implore – the laws of man and the universe could never part us. It’s just that the injustice here does not come from the situation itself or any external force in any form but from our unwillingness to compromise our separate lives to make room for our love to evolve.
Maybe you were brought together
to brush each other in the right direction…
but that’s it –
a brush, a light shove, a great stroke
You weren’t meant to stick on each other’s canvas,
you were just tools used to lick colors from palettes and
slather it on surfaces until you created the mess you needed
Oh, they disappeared long ago…right when both of you were busy with your individual worlds. She, with her late night shifts at the office. He, with his out-of-town business meetings that never seem to miss a weekend.
They tried to bring you together, you know.
You know. During the cloudy days when the rain would burst like a million water-balloons. They were lightning whizzing the streets, in search for the cab that got you stuck in bad traffic – always bad traffic – trying to pry your folded hands to pick up your phones and call the other.
To tell them…