there are people in you

by howaretheyfor

Angel, you are filled with people.

Angel, you are a building filled with people.

Angel, your wings are brittle sugar

Words belong to everyone once spoken; there is no ownership. That’s the magic of words, you bare yourself and your thoughts to be reproduced and taken and stapled onto walls

It is easier to fight for your life than to fight for freedom: easier to worry about food and water and housing than to worry about pride and injustice and love. How do you overcome this–by conflating Life with Freedom, by convincing people that you cannot separate the two.

“I love the way that lightning fills clouds,”

“I know what you mean,”

“how a strike of light is held by the thick air around it, how the cloud become saturated

Everything we are with others is a kind of trust: we only know people’s outsides, as detailed as they might be there is this thing at the center of their outsides that controls their outsides that is somehow what they Really Are and everything else is a detailed net of light and sound and fog: something like lightning filled clouds. And we take the outsides, and do our best to know their insides, everything becomes a kind of evidence.

Angel, you are filled with people. Angel, you are a building of people. There are people who taughten your muscles and blink your eyes people that live in your teeth children that play on your tongue when you laugh, here a conversation between two of them:

tongue child 1: I love it when he laughs

tongue child 2: It is like an earthquake and we can see the world around us

tongue child 1: it opens just for us to stand here hand in hand, nestled in the fleshy bulbs of his tongue listening to the laughter of him smelling the breath of him, he is a thing of echoes this great person that we live within, do you notice how he echoes we become thick of it also in our playing,

There are people in your tears, ejected and streaming down your face screaming trying not to fall, people in your sneezes and in your breathing. You are a vending machine of tiny people, angel, your wings brittle, don’t scratch too hard, don’t cry too often, angel, you are killing them. The children you kill them when you sneeze don’t sneeze angel, you kill them constantly when you touch things they become smushed, they cry for you they love you and you kill them, angel covered in a thin diamond dust

a thin diamond dust, do you remember as a child finding things you’d never seen before? Objects that made no sense? Gelatin cubes that were perfectly translucent that were wet to the touch but left nothing behind of their wetness, the first time you saw a bag of diverse marbles, the things you can put in glass and keep there, new chemistries and physics and objects that that betray our understanding: balls that bounce and goops that don’t stick, spaghettis and metals and plastics that were new to the touch. Have you noticed, angel, that you can blink your eyes but not your ears or your nose? Why is that? Why can’t we force ourselves to notlisten or notsmell the way we can close our eyes.

Coming to a new place for the first time, filled with the previously unknown streets that go noplace and trees you’ve never seen: how twisted that world is, that world of the first time, like holding ice cubes in your hand for the first time, “what if everything melted when i held it,” how malleable the whole world is your brain uncertain is seeing new things everytime, “i have found a place that never stays the same that is different each time” until it begins to cement, Orphan children, “i’ll be your family,” “i’ll be your father,” “i’ll be your brother and your best friend come with me child all i have is a backpack and a sleeping bag but i’ll buy you new clothes. I’ll teach you to see how beautiful the world can be. We’ll get in trouble, and you’ll learn to love me and then to hate me, orphan child come with me and let me be for you everything you’ve ever wished for. I’ll be your family.”

Words like growths that grow on each other, tumors that spring from other words, a fungus that congeals from us sticky. An experiment in missing, falling asleep in his hair.