by Angie Hedman
dissociation blues
i think my brain thinks i don’t exist
because he has commitment issues
my brain, at the kitchen table
in a grimy apartment, somewhere New Yorkish
under a bare bulb smoked cigarette yellow,
drunk head in fur-knuckled hands, maybe sobbing
my body, sadly, from the doorway
in a purple furry bathrobe worn holy
in spots, almost-sanctified small, chirp-like
he doesn’t look
doesn’t want to admit
that by the age of 25 your cells start to die
which means s/he’ll start dying before we’ve lived
paid our student loans, kissed
enough and he
is afraid to look at her
afraid she is more religion than he can hold in both palms,
that this run-away elopement
will turn implosive,
that he’ll wake to an empty pillow
and cooled sheets and surprise non-existence
and he’s asking God to tell him he’s something
as she shakes her head, praying
for rehab, reconnection, rain,
knowing better
two selves
aware but inconsolable
like the veins that feed the heart
shushing blue secrets across the organ
they touch
in lieu
of each other
my therapist told me to keep a running list of all the things i like about myself
- according to quantum mechanics, no particle is ever in the same place twice; rather, electrons are constantly randomly teleporting through space time, constantly replacing both each other and themselves
- every cell in your body is replaced on a seven-year cycle, meaning that aside from tattoos, no part of you is ever really the same as it once was
- tattoo ink travels throughout the body via the lymphatic system, meaning that even the stable art of your body is in a constant state of flux
- the bacteria within the vagina produce the same enzymes as sharkskin, which is why “looking fishy” is the gay term for “looking lethal”
- i once watched an entire season of RuPaul’s Drag Race in one sitting, while eating the equivalent of two whole pizzas
- chipmunks trust me more than they trust other people, possibly because i also love stuffing my face, possibly because i’m also micro-streaked with black pigment
- the loneliest whale in the world sings a song at a frequency no other whale can hear, making it invisible to all other members of its species, but
- i’ve listened to the loneliest whale song on youtube
- sound waves are another form of flux, of particle motion; the energy of communication thrums in measured waves like the waves the ocean uses to measure the moon
- i once got punched so hard in a mosh pit that i couldn’t bend my elbow for three days.
- mosh pits are another form of motion, of communication, of energy, the excitement of all our particles accelerating at once to hum at violently sympathetic frequencies with the surrounding stardust
- a guy at a farmer’s market once told me to smile because “i looked like i was about to kill someone,” and it was frightening him
- the human gut contains between 500 and 1000 distinct species of bacteria, making the human body part ecosystem, part war zone, part communist revolution—eating the wrong things at the wrong times can literally cause massive gut genocides
- one time a guy in a blue jeep wolf-whistled at me while i was running; i chased his car, flipping it off, for three blocks
- one time i smushed a fly and cried for two days; these things were related
- i once bought a succulent from an animal shelter fundraiser; i named it Darla, after the kitten i wanted but couldn’t support
- one time i stalked my local animal shelter’s website for a month, waiting to ensure that the kitten i wanted had been safely taken in by someone else
- my father the engineer once said i care too much about what other people think; i say that with all the organisms that rely on my body, i am too alive to be apathetic
- i am a giver and receiver of life; i am a creator of worlds.
- i shove back hard. i keep running
fishnet theory
i am pressed and gulping legs not legs not detachable, not whale skin pale sharkbelly bitable in these nets, you wick, i tallow i, involuntary flammability these netted skin gaps called my gaps, not my gaps these holes, emptinesses mouth, cunt these refillables, i am one Big Gulp i am fleshlight i am refillable here my mystique, plastic and possessed i am foot-wipable, please take off your shoes when you enter you entering you boarding passed, hands and skin casual uninvitation please knock i am become toecaught i cannot step in this pencil skirt call it “professional” this immobility i am stabbed with underwire stabbed with universe the queens on drag race discuss “body realness” say they are serving “body realness” i am to serve next week on Barefoot Kitchen, i will saw off my legs i will saw off my fingersserve with lemons fish theory un-tongued i will please judges with skinny pathology seaweed haired, i will slip through hands against legs a nightmare shiver but i am not seaweed not kelp forest not nightmare body wire bodied fishmonster i am fishmonster i am deadliest catch i am not caught i am these not legs not arms not holed not holy not pierced not skinniness not edible tentacled i wink like fishhooks grasp and threaten this is not me is not me is me is slippery white and toxic is a threat, is not a threat is unsold unmarketed unconsumable this breath motion magic body these legs these teeth these teeth
Nixi Schroeder is a poet and teacher based out of Saint Louis, Missouri. Her work has appeared in The FEM, Blue Heron, Sad Girl Review, Duck Lake, One Hand Clapping, and other publications.
Angie Hedman is a multi-medium artist, writer, and high school art educator who creates and resides in the great Midwest of Muncie, IN. She holds degrees from Ball State University in the areas of Metals, and Art Education. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Barren Magazine, Montana Mouthful, Spectrum Literary Journal, Barely South Review, and Wine Cellar Press among others. She tweets at @artist_writerAH.