Mortician's Lipstick

One day I was born, another day I was almost thirty. In between those days, there came a day when the thin line between here and there didn't make a difference. That being a whore was just as worthy as being a nun. That being a rapist was just as tolerable as being a politician. That being a sheep was just as legitimate as being a wolf. Whichever and wherever I was was a prism I studied under a bright light: you are this, you are that. But then again you are none of them.

Though there were things that I could not escape from--my hometown, my gender, my race, the existence of my body in this part of the world in this part of the century--I was always compelled to runaway. And when I was almost thirty, running away became just as senseless as being fixed into a chair. It made no difference. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, reduced to a fleeting jumble of sensations and crummy memories.

Who's there? My body, untenanted and unattended in the room of a mortician. Jazz music is playing in the air, as the mortician enters, opening the wounds, hacking away the organs, sewing up the stories, and putting on that body a dress and makeup. Between lying there in a metal bed, and standing here fiddling with a needle and a lipstick, there is no difference. One day I was born, another day I was almost thirty. Everything else that took place in between is just another children's story.

// Aug 2014