shelved bruise
crashing out over a micro-incident
There’s these comically big bruises all over her thigh and she can’t help herself from enjoying the way they sit on her skin. This must be the Tumblr influence still making its presence known. She sits on her bed and stares at each bruise before slowly pressing on it. There’s no reaction, not from her nor the bruises. She grows bored of this within minutes, so the rest of the time spent with the bruises, she takes pictures. She documents and sends to her friends the results. I am in the process of renovating my space. My room is absurdly big and I don’t know what to do with all this space; I have to admit that I’m a hoarder of sorts so it didn’t make sense that I was in this predicament to begin with. The other day the walls, covered with boxes, began protesting by peeling on the wallpaper. It was time for a change; an organized effort to organize, so I ordered a shelf for all my books and all my trinkets from travels that I’ve been to that have been collecting dust, like a memorial of sorts. 1. A shelf fell on me. 2. I tried to save the shelf. 3. Butter knife bend it like Beckham biscuit dream hand cream dagger of sorts with the blade curved and deer antlers caught in headlights healing the non-victims so are they predators? who is outside? better question: who is inside? double u double u double u dot i don’t want to continue. I changed my mind; there’s these comically large bruises mapped all over my thighs. I want to draw lines between each one and decide if there’s a language to be made or applied or justified here. More passively, I can’t help myself from enjoying the way they sit on my skin. This must be the Tumblr influence still making its presence known. I’m not sure that it ever left, but don’t think that I care to dissect the ideology of bints or froots right now. I just want to be a bint. I want to know more about these bruises, so I vow to sit on my bed and document them every morning until the day comes where I wake up and they’re gone. I decided this in the bathroom after taking an uneventful dump. Afterwards, I changed into a nightgown, sat on bed, pulled the cloth up, stared at each bruise, before slowly pressing on them. There’s no reaction, not from myself nor the bruises. I grew bored with this within minutes, so the rest of the time was spent taking pictures and adding the black-and-white filter to satisfy that earlier urge, driven by curbed fascination, within me. These pictures created a narrative of sorts, which I wasn’t sure was my bruise language; rather, it feels like something from the outside and inside at one. It might’ve been my mother’s tongue, but it certainly wasn’t mine, I settled.www.a-shelf-with-three-glass-doors-fell-on-me.comwww.thanks-ikea-now-i-can-sue-you-and-never-have-to-work-again.comwww.i-cannot-believe-my-body-lifted-a-120-lbs-shelf-on-its-own.comsacred and stupid renovations third space semi-hoarded memories wall predicament box confession accented configuration peel wallpaper fingernail clean finish bond yoko uno ono-line oak-baked yolk-good shelf instead of phone heavy extension of my body bruise as proof i will save myself