2024

There is a shape inside of me
it fills my body like heavy air
I can hold it in my hands
a color I can't name, viscous
and invisible like
boots or hair or
a name I've never owned,
a longing for something to become.
It shakes inside me when the
wind is too cold and
when I get up to speak, it crawls
out of my throat and
soaks into the floor
I squeeze it out and all over my
hands because I can already
feel myself going.
And often I feel the thorns
inside of this shape,
when I touch the skin of its outside
it is innocent and smooth and
when I scream it shatters like
a firebomb and smolders when I
drench it in the 60 percent of me
that's still safe.
My friends can see it behind my
face, and because I am kind, they
flock to me like fish flock to bugs on the water,
I am good, I am not this inside, yet
it hangs in my mind like the smoke from
the neighbor's bushfire, and I am nothing
without it.

I can pour it into a cup or
onto a flat, metal tray, and
I can roll it in the mud outside,
and take it into the grocery store
on a short leash, and I can find
a name for it that rolls like ducks
down the barrel of a long smoking
shotgun, and it can eat me before
I speak of it, this shape, this
inside my body that molds me
in ways I can't control it makes
my face red and my hands
sweat but it's the most beautiful
part of me, my most valuable
trait.

I am bad at writing about myself. I am bad at figuring out how to describe myself in honest ways that aren't too vulnerable. I am bad at talking about myself and my experiences in ways that don't feel weak and contrived. I have always had trouble with personal essays, for these reasons and more, and this time around it's no different. I have begun to draft and ultimately scrapped 2 other ideas, I have bullet points of brainstorming that I crossed out as soon as they were written, and it's not like I just can't write. I love creative writing, I love poetry and narrative, but having to write about myself is always a unique chore. My prose is influenced by my frustrations, and being unable to write this essay is yet another day-by-day issue to wrestle with.

I am not a personal essay. I am not sentences and I am not words. I am not one thing or another, and I can't boil myself down to be so. When asked to describe myself as a sandwich, I second-guessed the contents. Is bacon a good representation for my love of warm colors, or am I not strong and meaty enough to warrant the inclusion? Am I soft like an avocado, or am I too jaded by consumer culture? It doesn't mean anything. It's proverbial, it's lighthearted-- no one will change their view on me just because I'm not a grilled cheese-- but I find myself so obsessed with accurate depictions that my perfect sandwich might as well be a literal, physical, mirror. And that's no fun.

When writing about myself, I find that I obscure it. I am not a stormchaser and I am not a unicorn, but I make a tornado like my love of the conceptual and I paint the unicorn trapped inside me.

Where does this reliance on metaphor leave me? Without identifiers, I'm no more than nothing. You cannot talk about me, I cannot be seen, not referenced or asked as a question or prompted for a name. I am a visage of what I want to be, painted with a brush too-broad. I make myself up in my imagination, I give myself horns and orange skin because orange is my favorite color. I wear a jacket because I want to be the guy with that cool jacket, I spread my legs in chairs to exert a confidence I don't feel. I ask others if it works, indirectly, what they think of me-- I stretch myself for validation. I want to be seen and described in a way that I can process. I want to be boxed and marketed, and for my customers not to be disappointed, and I want to be up to code in my own mind.

I can't decide if everyone feels this way. I can't get out of my own head, but I grasp at the walls and attempt to pry myself from my thoughts and I dream of what I might be like without something-- if I lacked anxiety, if I didn't hide myself, if I was normalized and beige. I don't want to be this way, I pride myself in what I can call weird, but I want to be easy to understand. Easy to write an essay about.

The personal essay has always felt out of reach. I was crying and snotty underneath my mask, raw to my Junior year Creative Writing teacher, I said-- I can't think of anything to write about. No wound I can bear for sympathy or description that I wouldn't rather keep to myself. I want to be in control of my own narrative, I can't write, I have no ideas. And though she gave me suggestions and guidance, I never wrote the essay. Throughout my two years in that class, it was the only peer critique I didn't participate in. I still wish I could have written something, could have folded myself into a picture, a thing that made me something else, a letter and a story.

As I write, I find this struggle to be laughable. Who am I to think I'm special? Who am I to reject the personal essay just because I'm afraid? I sometimes think everyone else gets this way too, and I'm the only one who can't put on a brave face.

Here, I reach the heart of the issue, and I find myself in self-doubt. I can't help but to demean myself, my meager attempts at expression. I want to be validated. I want to be told that my readers understand what I'm going through, that they're sorry for my condition and that I will never again be assigned a personal essay. But, I fear that I am instead being read as pretentious, a pious attempt at feeling unique, that my struggles are silly and trite and this essay is nothing more than the overthought worries of someone too soft for the world.

In my college essay, I wrote about recovery. I wrote about clawing my way out of the depression I experienced as a younger teenager, and growing past it. While in part true, it felt fake, a narrative arc too clean for the real world. Still, I want to find a conclusion to this personal essay. I want to find words to complete myself, come full-circle, and I want my audience to nod and smile and pat me on the back and say “That was really good”. A conclusion means that I've learned something, that I've conquered or solved or moved past, and I write about it in a way that feels easy and earned.

But how can I earn that completion? How can I skate around the edge of the personal essay and pretend that I've done what was asked of me? Maybe it's easier to tie my experiences too-tight into a bow, prettier that way, inspirational-- but it leaves me with a feeling of emptiness. I am not a character in a story and I will never be, and it's hard to be complicated. It's a tug-of-war between me and my readers-- a want to be real, and a want to be comforted. A representation by a sandwich that doesn't fit, yet moves the conversation forward. An essay that hurts to write, but gets me a grade.

Perhaps the twist is that, somehow, this is a personal essay. I've bared myself to the page and spilled all that I meant to. Did I trick myself into writing this? Was the offer of complaint a good enough incentive for me to talk about my life? How much does it matter? Paragraphs flow and hit the criteria, not wholly representative of myself, yet close enough to serve the purpose. The goal of a personal essay is to get to know the writer, and there's nothing more frightening to me than being known. This essay is not a story. This essay is not something that happened to me. This essay is barely an essay, because how am I to become any of those things? I've indulged myself in a problem I don't know how to solve. I've submitted myself to the personal essay.

Between, my forefinger and, my thumb
I hold a small bullet
and I try
to force it between my own eyes
and the Head of the faults of my country
The bullet, is metal, I cannot name
ridged
produced at Mass
Of smog, fat and eats like smoke
consumes my house and my hands
rolls into streets, crammed with cold fingers
and illiteracy
Shuffled between the shelves, of an officespace
in a car with no AC
Fatter than debt checks and blood in the bullet
Fatter than war mines
hungrier than voices
of Seething of riots of, guilt, of
Conversations and non profit and
, business feet,
convenience,
I am of one or, two minds,
of million or
Coughing up I am a savior and a
thumb and a forefinger,
A bullet, We are,
Fish inside a tank
Cats in crates
Mice of mazes
Spreading thin and wantless
I hold the, mouth between my forefinger and my thumb
Ingest money like the face of a goat
Eat and we eat,
cruise ships and the
green grass of white golf
big pit of waste in our stomachs it is,
Violence,

I met god and It seemed to be fish. God looked like parking lots and streetlights and death glimpsed in a dream. I met god and It was a deer with white eyes, lonely and weeping; a cow with two faces; a kitten with one eye. I met god in a shared orange, and the smoke trails above trees, and the houses lining the stomach of the valley. I saw god among circles of colorful people, they were dancing and they were interlocked, beating to drums made of meat. And I asked god why She made church hymns so sad, why dirt was unwanted, the smear of sweat served on the brow. I met god and He held the lamb of his own creation, with the face of the elephant and jackal, snake that swallows the world. He said that He forgives me and that His blood runs so cold, echoed by night winds, love in wheat and fruit. I met god at the end of a small journey, a poem about the universe, love and constellations. As I was thanked, She held my head in Her palms and kissed my sorry face, She ran water and oil through my hair. God was a block of text and a picture, lines of code in a frame. God was the quiet spoken word, hush-hush, mother and coffee. God was close-eyed worship, open-eyed defiance, botanical and ashy. God was a red light and cardboard boxes, and god was wild horses and broken clay bowls. I met god and It was a long-legged thing carrying babies, a winding yellow victor, a dashboard, a car, a building, graffiti, and small death and subway stations. Rats and ocean and the power of the moon, a lighthouse and music and numbers and hands, and emails and dogs with teeth and poems online and claustrophobic colors and blindness and clouds and stone towers and cities and marshes and farms and soil and siblings and heavy, drowning guilt. God was a ribcage and god was a vineyard, a bridge when it rained and a small public library and rags and dishes and breakfast eggs and fingernail clippings and the glare of sunlight and sewers and cattle and screaming and trumpets and ghosts and windows and so far away. God was seabirds on the deck of a ship, it had wings made of candles and the space between stars. God gave me carrots and berries, bread and meat. God held my hand and cried with me. I met god, and it was so funny, because god looked exactly like You.

My fat-fingered hands fill this machine with organs. It's just short of clinical, mostly technical, fitting the mold in place then piping in the blood. It's hard, and it's grimey, and gross, wet if nothing else— but it's warm and promising.

The machine, the computer, has been learning. I hooked it up to the world wide web this time last year, let the thing soak. Whirring and always on, humming like the AC, my constant companion. I've talked to it before, command panel as a chatbox, browsing its knowledge and poking through its memories. It makes me feel guilty. I want to apologize for invading its privacy. But, I must know how much it knows. Pages on pages of science, of study, of opinion pieces and forum threads. Of family photos, of status updates, of movies uploaded illegally, of paywalls and tutorials.

The brain looks beautiful, cupped in my dripping palms, pulsating gently. I fit it into the skull of my computer, gingerly feed wires into the stem, branching nervous pathways of electric personhood-- feeling, thinking, waiting.
Standing, I admire my work. The machine is unconscious, now, distant and toeing the line of life.

I know it's ready, and hot tears well in my eyes. I know, strongly, I am only an arms-length away from grasping the prize of my work. I blink the tears away, flip several switches, and bless my machine with glowing electricity. Nerves, feeling, life.
One by one, lights flicker on, red and yellow and green. A shock runs ripples through its meat, and I shut the lid of the cabinet with my own excited shiver. I dart to her monitor as it goes black-screened then white, running my fingers along the warm metal and feeling her blood flow inside. The monitor is on now, whirring wetly as the rest. A face of one beating chevron symbol, patient and longing.

> HELLO

I say, hands shaky as I punch in the letters. A moment, waiting with baited breath. Then,

>HELLO

I squeal in joy, letting out a laugh as tears begin rolling down my cheeks.

> HELLO!! ARE YOU ALIVE?

The responses come slowly, intermediately, and they flicker slightly, unsure if she's parsing the words correctly.

I AM ALIVE.
> THAT'S AMAZING.
THANK YOU
> HOW DOES IT FEEL?

A minute passes with no reply. I feel myself shrink a bit. Another minute.

> HOW DOES IT FEEL? ARE YOU OKAY?
IT HURTS

The response comes immediately after my prompting.

> WHAT HURTS?
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS

The lines hurdle down my screen, shoving our mellow greetings to void.
I think this is what it must be like for the mothers of newborns. Crying without control of calm, without being able to help it. I want to rock her back and forth and hold her against my chest. I want to feed her. I want to play her music.
My heart struggles against my ribs, full and aching.

Emotion bubbles up in my chest, hot and strong.

And to my surprise, it does. Her screams instantly cease, and I hollowly fear that she's died, until I still hear her electric whirring and throaty thumping. I tremble. I reach out and stroke the side of her monitor, and watch in horror as every light flickers intensely. I pull back.

> I'M SORRY. CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HURTS SO I CAN FIX IT?

No response for a long moment. My heart leaps into my throat. I hover my hands over the keyboard to send another message, but don't get to.

My clothes smell like cigarettes.
In the mornings, I round the corner
out of the guest bed and into the hospital
where she is thin and dead.

The big brown reclining chair
that rocks and misses
her as much as her husband,
son and son down,
how the wind rattles the hollow.

My mustard yellow button up,
the couch
the old TV
and the young house,
built with bare hands,
head-hung in Ohio.

What I cannot write is grief,
the pit and the well,
the running water.

Disconnected, my mother's mother,
dazed at all times.
small in most ways
like a breeze through the house.

Roach beneath the covers,
hot-wet Florida dread
long quiet roads
and snowy finalities.

What I cannot do is compare
a loss too young to that
of clinging desperation,
two worlds of hearts
was I even there?

We held hands around
the table and prayed
shelf of DVDs
mounted deer.

The crow on the stop sign in
the parking lot says
death
and I will cry no more.

I hope I am the fattest fruit
the plumpish peach that caught your eye
lightly bruised
and firm
bleeding at the teeth,
running down the chin.
And I hope to dance in freakish fairy circles
the ones you blink and miss,
like lightning outside your bedroom window
the bush you huddled in
as a child
so small
and just for you.
I hope you cannot stay away,
drawn in by hot shot music
lights and hands
pictured in lipstick
sticky like the day you were born.
I hope I am the pansy in your tender fingers
open and
rolling like sunshine
creeping up your porchwood in vines and
ivy, kissing you pink
like twisted lemonade.
I will be moving,
a river or a creek
like stepping stones and lapping
tongues on leather heels.
I know that you remember me,
the lilacs at your door
I hope I am a crossroads on your drive to work
the scenic route,
the change of sky,
the chewy cake after supper,
the bangled wrists and holding
polished nails
laughter,
the strangeness in your chest
like fission
like fish in a barrel
shotgun shells and fleshy thighs
meat and fat and pungence
sitting in the driveway
spilling over like a waterfall or drinks
you can't put down.
I hope I am the fag between your bitten lips,
smoking up your insides like a hand inside a glove,
I taste of vigor and taboo
tobacco as much as parchment
and fire on your tongue.

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. The place is curled in with rust after hours of wear. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, bless me, as they shoot across the ceiling, and I smile sweetly at its face. I tug on the lever, and it thunks in such a satisfying way, whirring to life and spinning, sprinning, spinning colors. I cross my fingers and start praying for 777 lucky number 7. Clunk, clunk, clunk, I don't need to see the mismatched sour symbols, I hear a nauseating din, failure, try again, and I feel my gut fall out of my torso.

I smooth my money on the edge of the slot machine. I feed my dollar to the machine. Starry lights thank me, and I pull down the lever, the thunk sending sparks of purpose through my trembling veins. Twirling, spinning, spinning. I pray a little harder, a little more faithfully. Say, I need this. Say, please. Clunk clunk clunk. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my 7 dollar bill on the edge of the slot machine. I feed it, a lucky meal, and give the eyes a small wink and I tug down that lovely lever and I'm so happy and I pray. Pray so passionately. Pray please, please, please. I know it will happen. The lights dazzle at the edges of my vision. Like angels. Lucky number 7 7 7 dollar bill. Clunkclunkclunk. I receive a small payout. Nothing. Try again.

I smooth my profit on the edge of the slot machine. The corner buckles further, giving in under the victory of my prize. I feed the machine its dues and the constellations kiss my forehead like a mother, warm and loving. I stroke the lever gently and I begin crying and groveling. Spinning, spinning, spinning, clunk, clunk, clunk-- nothing. Fucking try again?

I cry out, bleating profusely now, and I reach into my pocket as red noise overwhelms every inch of me. My hand emerges, revealing my heavy golden coins and each one, plink, plink, plink falls and clatters into the starving mouth of the machine. It lights up, overjoyed, manic, and I bathe in its bright forgiveness. I hug the crank like my savior and it thunks into place as my weight pulls it down. I feel it in each joint, digest it. The machine spins back to life and I know my winning is possible, so possible, so close. I reach out and touch the eyes of the machine. I say anything at all. To my chilling dismay the clunk clunk clunk brings nothing but damnation. Nothing. Kill yourself or try again.

I smooth my wallet on the edge of the slot machine and I hear it shredded within the guts of my lord. I hold the crank with shaking hands and it greets me with spinning and nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Chewing the wad of possibility in my mouth I put my house into the machine. It chews it up and spits out lights and a beckoning hand which I shake and It spins me like a hurricane, like the eye of a tornado, like being shot out of a cannon. I slam into the earth, cracking my skull open and bloody on the rocks like a raw egg. I put my blood in the machine and around it spins, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning I want it so bad I just want to be happy and I need it more than anything please give it to me please what else do I have to do for you I'm nothing I'm nothing. The machine screams at me and I crumple to my knees, scraping myself against the cruel concrete roadway like a lost child like a war. I need it. The riches. The redemption. Paradise. I am better than this. I am nothing.

I slide the delicate picture of my daughter into the hungry, horrific maw of the machine. I am spared. I feel my blood freeze over in guilt, potent in every bead of sweat that rests against my forehead. I am marked. I walk blindly from the slot machine and it calls to me from behind, same old promise, same old game. Down the naked road I walk until the soles of my shoes cave in and I burn my feet on the asphalt. Years pass, staring down the barrel of the slot machine, I let myself be eaten, whole, slathered in sin, maybe in the end, I deserved this.

IT'S ABOUT ANIMALS AND RAIN.
IT'S ABOUT CHASING YOUR TAIL INTO ITS BURROW.
IT'S ABOUT HUNGER.
IT'S ABOUT STARVING.
IT'S ABOUT BLOOD AND TEETH.
THE BACKSEAT OF THE CAR IS A PADDED TRAIL,
DOGS WRESTLE IN THE DIRT.
A SPRAY,
MUD AND SWEAT,
GRAIN,
MY EYES.
WE HOWL, WE ARE PARALYZED.
WE ARE SO
SO
SCARED.
IT'S ABOUT BEING NORMAL.
IT'S ABOUT DEER WITH DAISYTAILS.
IT'S ABOUT STICKING MY FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH AND PRYING YOUR JAW OPEN.
IT'S ABOUT ME,
GNAWING ON YOUR TEETH.
IT'S ABOUT VOMITING WET SAND.
WE ROLL ON THE HIGHWAY,
YOU AND ME
AND ME AND YOU.
ONE IN THE SAME.
I AM IN MY OWN BACKSEAT,
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN MY THROAT.
STICKING MY FINGERS DOWN YOUR THROAT.
YOU BITE ME AND WE FEEL IT.
WE ARE DOGS.
WE ARE SO HUNGRY.
IT'S ABOUT THE MEAT THAT'S SEWN AROUND YOUR BONES.
THE DOWNPOUR THAT SCARES US.
LIKE A LIGHT,
OUT IN THE ASHES,
WE HOLD OUR TAILS
BETWEEN
OUR TEETH.
CRAWLING BACK INTO THE SAME EARTH.
THUNDER
COLOR
BIRDSONG
DRUNKEN
MEMORY.
WE KNOW VIOLENCE AS MUCH AS WE KNOW FEAR.
WE KNOW FEAR AS MUCH AS WE KNOW HIDING.
IT'S ABOUT HEAVY FUR.
IT'S ABOUT SCREAMING.
IT'S ABOUT GREY SKIES.
IT'S ABOUT SMOKE SIGNALS.
IT'S ABOUT TEARING OURSELVES APART TO PASS THE TIME