Post-mortem


 

I'm starting to think bodies
are rubber band shells for you,
made of bubblegum skin
and candy necklace bones.
You’ll sink your polished nail
until you draw blood,
stretching the skin
to see how far it takes
to give under your pressure.
When they’ve grown tired
of your scrutiny,
they will collapse in a heap
of muscle memories
because they are just bodies
after all.

I’m starting to think bodies
are just thumbtacks for you,
that you can pin on your map,
and throw away when you’ve
laid claim to your property.
You’ll lift your proud chin,
like a conqueror of those
too naïve to know
you’ve already dug their graves
in their own backyards.
You’ll look on, pleased,
knowing that even when their bones
are charred to dust,
they’ll still have your name
written all over them.

I’m starting to think bodies
have no meaning to you. 
They’ll be a means to your end,
canvases you will tattoo 
your words on. “Watch me fly”,
you’ll stitch onto their skin,
as you nail their feet
to the ground. 
We’ll watch you grow
over our heads, knowing 
you’ll never look back
at the body count you’ve accumulated.

You say “Watch me accomplish
great things”, as if us bodies
are the audience to your one-person 
show. In your eyes, 
we will blend into
shadows, blurry faces witnessing you. 
Then you’ll usher us
out, gathering the next
round of fools
who’ll believe they’re
more than a collection of limbs. 

I’m starting to think,
one day the bodies 
will be too many for you
to carry on your high horse. 
They will start to bleed, tainting
the pressed pleats of your skirt,
and someone will pass by you
under a cobweb of city lights
to point out how
the heels of your shoes
are leaving a trail of evidence
to your methodology.

There are Y’s stitched
onto the tumultuous surface 
of our chests, from when
you cut the wound
too deep
and hastily stapled closed
the folds of skin over our
ribcages.
You always liked
your cuts clean, so I guess it
makes sense
that our
mutilated, emptied-out shells
had no place
in your gallery of puppets. 

 


Lista de imágenes:

1-2. Frédéric Fontenoy, ambas imágenes de la serie Metamorphosis, 1989.


 

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