June 8, 2018
by Torey Akers
There exists a temptation for the abscess dweller to grow protective of the hole that named her. She will struggle to understand why no one treats her indent as its own discrete organ, itself capable of charm or fear or cinder block removal. She will demand to know why no offers to share her other body in its dark have emerged, and full people, people intent on mending themselves immediately, might start to haunt that less-than-concrete self.
The abscess dweller will tap idly at the lid of the enclosure she has come to interpret as temporary. Will force of want allow her toes to graze the floor? This is what it means to be lowered slowly into an atmosphere of glass. This is the how symmetrical holes form. Not ruptures, exactly – that would require alignment -- but something closer to portals, nouns that reify themselves through an opening native to hurt.
The abscess dweller asks fewer questions than she should. Her fist won’t loop through the door-not-door to better steady itself.
Have you ever snatched your name from inside another person’s mouth? It’s not recommended, what with the possibility of errant scratches, and results are said to vary, (don’t ask me, please) but why shouldn’t the consumable be consumed by a more dexterous option? What fingers police that hunger?
The abscess dweller disagrees, and communicates her dissent by cracking her enclosure’s coldest edge.
III. Overnight Low
When the moon hangs too low in the sky, contextual darkness can feel like a threat, insomuch as a threat is defined by suspense, by the blurred edges undergirding an assumed unknown. The action foreboding won’t catalyze fear; quite the opposite, actually -- the fear clicks against a closed window, or crinkles smugly inside a McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapper. The fear twinkles in a swaying rear-view, in a kind hand’s center-most creases. Our sweaty, crass, collective twitch finds harbor in bad laughter, circling a pinpricked abscess painted to look like a little more like hope. When a digitized mind can’t curate its beholding noun-ness, the fear wears something brighter.
The fear thinks we’re funny because we often aren’t very funny at all.
IV: Pass the Potatoes (on the left hand side)
The abscess dweller haunts a window that works both ways, which is to say it functions less as a door-not-door than a barrier between what is seen and what is felt. She doesn’t throw random shit at passersby anymore, thank god – that stopped a few years ago. She’s tired, it seems. Formerly beautiful people often do get tired.
What she uses to board the windows up when the sun or any information elucidated by the sun becomes too harsh, however, strikes me as more interesting than what the boarding impulse might mean. Receptacles! Receptacles laid flat. Receptacles eaten un-alive and vivisected for a stranger, shielding purpose. The abscess dweller knows which aspects of her practices might ring peculiarly anti-doctrinal, but you know that old adage about persistence, right?
Surely you must.
DEBT CANCELLATION IS GOD’S PLAN. THAT’S WHY GOD SENT ME TO YOU. HOW WOULD YOU EVER KNOW ABOUT DEBT CANCELLATION, ABOUT THE MAGICAL ERASURE OF YOUR DEBTS IF SOMEONE DIDN’T TELL YOU ABOUT IT?
Speaking of which, the abscess dweller has asked me to ask you something a little sensitive: what did you want most? Have you made it happen? Would you like to? If there were shortcuts, would you take them?
Would they be shortcuts in space or in effort?
Would they be shortcuts in mucus or in memory?
Are you confident in your intention? Will you be?