say we never transcend anxiety. are we any less heavenly for it? what if the curtains we draw upon our days remain white blinds for always? what if the night opens too wide and swallows the bicycle helmets and ash trays and plush toys of our youths? o, if only there were a bucket big enough for the sky to lean over. if only a feeling could be purged without risk of its more acerbic sister sitting in our throats for days. if only everything that had been clean about the past were not preserved, now, by a film of dense smoke and old skin. silly humans, always looking backwards so as not to fall on the shame-walk out of childhood’s shitty apartment. always believing we can survive in the most disillusioned of times: that, if need be, we could hack it in an abandoned township field, so long as it were somewhat beautiful. that we could build a stable home of scrap wood and arthritic bones. that we could gut our stuffed animals—that anybody could—so as to hide in them the ashes of every sensible instinct we’ve burned.
by zoe blue
