Aristocracy

I make a prince feel like a pauper, and a pauper feel like a prince.


I'm screaming that I'm the queen, with more than the mirror to convince.

On the Down Low.

Don't you get tired of trying to catch up? Holding your breath to remain subversive? Hunting the cool before it hunts you. Do you know who you really are?

Morrissey and Ian Curtis are taken already.

Subculture.

Subterranean.

Subordinate.



Living life on the down low.

So long.

We were standing back to back waiting for the whistle to be blown. On your mark, get set, go.


Rushing away from each other as fast as we could and sneaking glances over our shoulders. In the race together, but with different finish lines.

We ran for miles. Pounding hearts and beads of sweat rolling off our necks. You weren't wearing the proper shoes because you didn't have them now.  We both saw the end in sight and with steps to go we were pulled back. Retracted like a slingshot.


All this time running away from each other and we had to find out the hard way that this whole time our spines have been attached with a rubber band.

Non-Fiction

I met the devil Saturday evening. He lives in a lovely home in Etobicoke. I dined at his table for dinner. I was well fed and given wine to my heart's content from the women of the house, while he steered the conversations. 

After dinner he read my fortune. Told me I worried too much, and I would be financially  troubled, and that the man in my life didn't see me as a priority. 

He told me that North America was upside down. That men here weren't as strong as they should be with their women, and that he never did the dishes. 

When I felt the vomit rise in my throat, I excused myself. 

The moral of the story, kids? The devil can't tell a fortune worth shit, and patriarchy is thriving in hell.  

Writer's Block.

I told him that he makes me genuinely happy. The kind of happy where my anxiety subsides. The kind of happy where I can rest easy at night. The kind of happy where I'm no longer trying to shape a piece of steel with my bare hands.

He sincerely apologized for this, stating that now I have nothing to write about.

The Letter Series: Installation #2

My dear Jay,

You were never sure if you wanted to live in the past or the future. Romanticizing what was and what could have been, but never what is. I'm not sure you were ever in love with me. Sometimes I think you were simply in love with time. You were forever wed to your unutterable vision of my perishable breath. But your superficial wealth nor your fame can buy back what we had. Your clothes robed a poor, weak boy, and I've always told you rich girls don't marry poor boys. It's just not the way of things.

You gave up on your own dreams the moment you tried to fulfill mine, and now we're both left cold. Jay, you can't repeat the past. You must kill the dream. I'm not the same girl. Tom may not give me such passion as you, but he's safe. It's secure. You were fleeting the moment I took you in again.

Do not destroy the letters. Do not resent me. For yes, I have changed, and I don't want to break your heart again. With food in hand, I led a starving man. But you're getting thinner with age.

I'm sorry, Jay. I smashed things up and then retreated back into my vast carelessness, letting others clean up the mess I had made. I could do nothing other than destroy you, and you had no choice. You were made for me.

Love always,

Daisy Fay

Exchange

He sat on my couch and opened up his chest. Pulled back his ribcage; a fence guarding his prized possession. After some hesitation he whispered,"Since I've met you, dying no longer scares me."

Without hesitation, I whispered back, "And since I've met you, living no longer scares me."

"That was poetic."

And with that, we watched HBO and ate Skittles.