Culture, Fiction


December 23, 2011

My heart is a strange country. One minute she speaks one language and the next, another. It’s like a flesh version of Switzerland. It’s also like an Independent Republic that the ex-dictators filled with landmines you should watch out for. I’ve been trying to dismantle them but I can’t remember exactly where they were placed.

I used to carry a map in my pocket and only hand it to certain people, under strict surveillance. But after several wars, I may have accidentally devoured it. I chewed on it for days until it finally settled in my stomach, like a blanket to hunger.

I wish I could throw it up now, piece it back together and find those bombs, so you can walk in freely and maybe pick some flowers, as few as there may be left at this time of the year. Or maybe just stay inside for a while, maybe light a fire, touch a word, you know, things people do when they’re cold.

And even if I managed to get another map, it’d still be a dangerous mission. We’d probably blow up into a million little pieces at the smallest attempt for mine removal. Then there’d be no more you and no more me, and the worst thing is that the world would go on and on, interminably, like a gold chain.

But say I’ve memorized the map and say I showed you. We’d probably blow up into a million little pieces anyway, but this time there’d be more of you and more of me, and the best thing is that the world would stop and take singing lessons every morning, like any other bird.

[Photo: Rebecca Jane. All rights reserved.]

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