Van Gogh tried killing himself, but people still talk more about his severed fucking ear. He also headed South of France, someplace Iโd like to go. Maybe not to get somewhere or get away from someplace. Like point A to point B. Iโve never been on one side or the other, more or less in between. Itโs like where I am in life, in between death and birth. You could compare where I am in life to where I stand on war and peace or the mileage from here to the South of France. But few and far between could make that comparison.
A permanently fading distance. More and more distant from the time when I was born. You’ve been intimate with dying since you were an infant. Dying; itโs a permanently fading distance leading to the time of your death. Iโm already dying and have been since birth. Not of any diagnosis. Not unless living is a diagnosis of some sort. But living has no treatment. And thatโs no concern if you can live without apprehension. I stick my fingers in the jar of cranberry sauce; Itโs darkish-red, similar to the blood you draw. Some would say living is a gift, tightly wrapped in a darkish-red ribbon. Life is the gift inside; death is the darkish-red ribbon. Tightly wrapped, keeping you from it. This birth and death of mine, itโs my void. Everything in between is either living or dying. And if youโre living, youโre dying. Names, I make a misconception about someoneโs name. And when I do, I stick my fingers in a jar of cranberry sauce. Similar to the
blood you draw. Because connotations are often misconceptions of the truth, you denote my name as nothing else; but a name. Now Iโm figuratively nothing, nothing but an object here in France.
Figuratively nothing; Iโve felt like that before. I never thought to do anything about it, not unless I had a plan. Iโm an object, figuratively nothing. Stick your fingers in me. Watch my blood draw from this jar of cranberry sauce. Then draw a comparison. Her life was in hysterics when I made plans without her. And these hysterics, not the kind where you laugh. It was the kind of hysterics where you cry resoundingly. Behind each muffled cry, she would beg for something.
And I could never tell what she begged from me. Was it my life or hers? I couldnโt tell you; I wish I could. Was it her begging for my life, so she wouldnโt have to take her own? I couldnโt tell you; I donโt want to.
A cherry-scented melted wax candle spilled all over my nightstand. You canโt make plans when life is unsound. Sheโs someone I love- the way I hate myself, the way I stick my fingers in a jar of cranberry sauce to watch my blood draw; I love her the way a cherry-scented melted wax candle is spilling all over my nightstand. So I moved to France, maybe to get away from someplace. Iโm convinced: we love to be feared and hate to be brave; we love to be feared and
hate to be brave- she has me not entirely convinced. Not entirely convinced, although I am convinced; you have to be brave to love someone, let alone yourself. We know this. But if you fear someone, you hate them, and if you hate someone, you fear them. To fear or hate them for what theyโll do to you or for what theyโll do to themselves. I moved to France. It was the safest way out. The only other way was out the open window onto the concrete slab.
So she gives me kisses with cherry-flavored chapstick because, with red lipstick, we catch bits of our teeth in the kisses we eat. Patrick Henry said, โGive me liberty or give me death!โ Well, why not both? I find death to be liberating. The thought of it is freeing, like that open window onto the concrete slab. And now she loves that thought of it because they fear her. And she can stick her fingers in their jars of cranberry sauce. And she can watch as their blood draws. Similar to how she makes an effort while in fits of manic rage, headed for the nearest way out, never the safest. Choking on her bite-sized Adam’s apple, looking beautiful as she makes an effort for once in her life. An effort to end her life. Little capsules of all kinds, supposedly easy to put away, the
fistful crowds my throat; Iโm choking on what was her bite-sized Adamโs apple. Beautiful. Almost like Van Gogh and his paintings; Van Gogh and his paintings. Beautiful.
An obnoxiously large steak knife; she held in her hand, long bony fingers clung tightly around it. I was wide awake and napping when I thought she might kill me. I never thought sheโd kill herself, though sheโd always talk about it. Her pointed spine was curved when she curled into that ball to cry. Similar to the knife and its sharp curved edge. You could make that comparison but donโt draw attention to it. In my unmade bed, where I was wide awake and napping, she sat
upright against the headboard; wooden splinters stuck her. Where long streaks of dyed blonde went along her upright back, that obnoxiously large steak knife slipping from her long bony fingers, she never had a plan. I scrutinize her effort. And all the people who ever did try but would fail. Somewhere in the South of France, a bedroom in Arles.
Yield both ways to the impression of who you are. Not entirely human, no one is. Thereโs a treatment for a diagnosis, but the cost is immoderate. In one eye, she stares, in the other; she gazes. A tear falls to her sunken cheekbones. I did not count how many. Her eyelids flutter, well rested. I was already wide awake and napping; we met again in my unmade bed- some unconscious oblivion. She smiled like an unmade bed. I kept my grief hidden like a well-made bed. Her problems felt so small with me looking down on her. Feeling when you canโt feel anything; must make you feel so small. Iโm sticking an obnoxiously large steak knife in her jar of cranberry sauce only to watch her blood drawn. Her blood drawing is a Van Gogh painting.
My unmade bed, like her well-made smile. In one eye, she stares, in the other; she gazes. Laughing in my face with her grief hidden, so well hidden like a well-made bed. Tears fell from my face onto her sunken cheekbones. Laughing because she knows Iโm not brave enough. Not brave enough to take anything from her, I never had a plan. She wears her smile like an unmade bed. The unmade bed is a well-made grave. Sheโs laughing like that unmade bed while Iโm
sticking into her an obnoxiously large steak knife.My unmade bed, like her well-made smile. In one eye, she stares, in the other; she gazes.
Laughing in my face with her grief hidden, so well hidden like a well-made bed. Tears fell from my face onto her sunken cheekbones. Laughing because she knows Iโm not brave enough. Not brave enough to take anything from her, I never had a plan. She wears her smile like an unmade bed. The unmade bed is a well-made grave. Sheโs laughing like that unmade bed while Iโm sticking into her an obnoxiously large steak knife.
Our founding fathers- used big words. Big words are so dumb. We breathe big words and talk hot air. Listen to the hot air balloon talking. Patrick Henry was a founding father. Van Gogh was a post-impressionist. Van Gogh tried killing himself, but people still talk more about his severed fucking ear.
by Jack Cuffaro
