I want the molecules of my body to fall apart.
Slow disruption and destruction of self.
Just like when you see large pieces of earth slide off of mountain sides from a distance, that’s what I want of my body, to shed itself over and over into a pile of cubic pieces that make me:
– Personality split into fifty cubes, White and clear like glass,
– Body ten thousand, red, peach, blonde, denim,
– Mind three hundred thousand, though I imagine the cubes of the mind would be smaller than the rest, shades and tints of blue,
– Something else held secret inside of me, deep green,
I want my soul to melt away into a cloud and fall out of my open mouth,
Escaping the bodily shell of who I am
For the purpose of this:
That I could then look at all of the building blocks of who I am and, in seeing it apart from the whole, separate the rotted pieces from the solid ones. That, being separate from myself, I could float back, step back, roll back… travel back and take a look at the pieces of who I am, the ones that truly need work on a base level, hidden when I am whole.
I know, just reading this, your brow is crinkling, furrowing may be the technical term, you don’t want me to become some pile of peach, red, blonde, denim, green, shades and tints of blue, white and clear, all bunched into a pile sitting with the cat hair on the couch, ear buds fallen awry as though they were once suspended and, when I dissolved, fell through the mess of me; you don’t approve.
However, let me tell you,
This is not some self-punishing technique meant to show you in some kind of physical action that I am unhappy.
It’s not some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy of introversion that one day I will look so far inside of myself that I will become that which I am made of.
It’s not some advance at you to bring pity to me.
These things that I do,
The things that fall into these building blocks, these small cubic categories,
They are for my benefit, so that I can love you and you and you differently and better.