Caitlin Gauthier

Mother of None

My womb is too empty for 

Your fatherly hands

 

I am heavy

I am full

 

I look in the mirror muttering 

 

“mother, mother, mother”

 

It does not suit my face.

Fragmented

 

I just spent $5,000 on a trip to Europe to purge myself of the dampness that has seeped into my skin; A common cold has attached itself to my lungs and it won’t let go. I am up at 5 am to work for that perfect body, to work, pull, push, against the throbbing. 

I can calmly say that today I did not repeatedly set myself on fire. I did not torch the hair on my head to spite my mother. I did not bleed openly in front of coworkers for the attention. Instead I slipped into a skin. One that suits me, but hides the callous sea witch underneath. 

I am in bed by 8:30 touching my thighs, touching themselves. Before I fall asleep I picture myself as an immortal entity, floating through space, glittering, shining, never dying and thinking of a day when I will feel free from the seduction of wanting to be perfect.

Sylvia and I

I have seen her face in clouds mottled and screaming. Dry and cracked. Deemed worthless and stuffy. Pretentious. Sylvia talks to me in dreams. She’s encouraging, but seems to choke. A glutton with words. Why does she keep all the good prose for herself? 

We have pulled the guns and shot our own feet, stumbling back into the house staring at the trail of blood hoping that if we don’t clean it up it will act as inspiration later. I sit and I write with a gun to my head, hands shaking lungs lurching inside my chest brain constantly revving throwing up words that sound the same. I throw my weight behind myself and push so fucking hard but I don’t budge. I just stand there, eating ice cream cones as big as my head; slowly decaying into adulthood. I have the urge to trip myself, just to see if I would get back up. 

Hey writer, hey poet. Next time shoot the ground, maybe you will get more inspiration from that. I look at myself in the mirror and chant “writer, writer, writer” “poet, poet, poet" And then I laugh. 

Famous

I want to be famous

Spread my legs open for the world.

Pour myself a cup of coffee and watch 

As the people stroll by. They are hungry

Mouths hanging open, sweat on their brows. They need more,

They always need more. I am actively searching for a spotlight

To stand in. For a stage to defile. On bended knee behind the curtain I pray

To the man who made me this way. 

 

I flit in and out of rooms, clutching hands

And shaking sweaty palms. I am open. I am gaping. But the wound is self

Inflicted. I want nothing more than to be seen. Admired. To quiver in the line of sight

Of my neighbors

Friends and strangers. Hoist my body up onto

That pedestal. Place me in a dancer's pose. I am a tree. My veins are filled with chlorophyll.

I get my corruptions from the light. 

 
 
 
 

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray