- by Zita Mirabal | Writing | 2ktwelve.com

Couldn’t you come over? - by Zita Mirabal

Because all the mouths moving in synchronicity with the clock couldn't prompt me to reveal the hazardous thoughts invading my mind like the vandals on the roof top next door, lurking in the sleeping stillness of the night back when I was five or six years old.
I stare at you prostituting your train of thought amidst this crowd, congregating like rodents munching away at one solitary cube of cheddar cheese, one last bread crumb and they laugh and they twitter, such beautiful garbage, but fuck man, you're garbage you reek and you sicken me and your presence evades me; if only I could hose down the feces covering every inch of your grotesquely formed body

Whenever I reveal myself, you see, I'm set up for another downfall as eternal as Alice's trip down the rabbit hole I have this hunger raging inside, denied nourishment because I want to still it; I want to be wholly independent of the outside. I seek purity, I say. I demand nothing less than what I can be given.

I see sunsets and silhouettes and broken reflections on the water and coconut pastries and freshly squeezed lemonade and parades down long avenues and interlocked hands and bare feet skipping down dusty corridors and iron railing and bodies collapsing on soft, feathery mattresses and damp sheets and bouquets of bougainvillea and lace panties strewn across the floor amid floating white feathers

Lectures like the incessant droning of bees emerging from the hive, arguing the requisites of human cloning versus sheep and 1930s science fiction and questionable morals skewed to fit in with the changing pieces of the puzzle as they drop, a light thud, on the black and white tiled floor and form cities! Sparkling with artificial lights!

Because if we could be caught in the still moment of Titian's Meeting of Bacchus and Ariadne, our procession would surpass that of the satyrs and sacrificed cow heads and lusty nymphs, but somebody please turn off the mother fucking reggeaton for Bacchus has just leaped before the startled maiden.