Now I remember: I was telling strangers at the birthday party about all the ways in which our cells are trying not to be forest fires. How inside each cell is a tuning fork and inside each tuning fork, the coiled music of our DNA. I was floating somewhere between the beer cooler and the red eyes of three cigarettes the way I imagine silk floats inside a spider. Inside, my friend was calling his mother in the bathroom, while outside, the woman he wanted to love picked a hole in her tights. I was close enough to catch the blue smoke that escaped her like a bird, which was closer than the distance between the benzodiazepine in my pocket and the back of my throat. I was thinking about how I am always running towards or away from myself. Why I keep opening my eyes underwater, what I hope to see. We picked at a cake someone bought at a supermarket, toasted to mercy though none of us knew what it meant. My friend told me he wished for someone to treat his body like a public park. I’m sick of careful, he said, which got me thinking about why I feel some days like a narrowly avoided bike accident, and on others like I have been tree-ringed by the man who took my silence to mean yes. Which I guess is like asking why the mind has a shorter memory than the body. Whether the language of the body could ever fit inside a throat.
Sketches of my d&d character, Haili Raasniemi aka Silakka. Based on quick play character sheet from 5e (folk hero, human, fighter). He has a tattoo written in dwarven language that translates to (Baltic) herring. He doesn’t know that himself, tho.
Aesthetics before everything, the boob window stays.