No more fluff. No methods to prime your thoughts. No dissection of the dictionary to fit my voice into the paper. All you get is a quarter-sheet and if you lose it, you won’t get another.
One person brings a notebook to a test and the reflection of its results will be lost.
Concentrated, oversaturated –
no scroll long enough to drape it over your body. Come naked or go home.
We know your safety is disturbed when threats of knives or forks arise, but you are made of meat, not stone, and your purpose was to be consumed, so your harm does come at the benefit of others’ freedom of expression; a priority on these sacred lands.
Today, I was digested by the autumn sky and the salt upon its cracked leaves kissed my cheeks and swept me within a lagoon, a dark shade of blue akin to London. It told me
to buy the London fog and I did. I capitalized off of its most distinguishable characteristic;
if pictures made it into public pixels, my name could be read in the wind. In the eyes of the other and in the sweet curves of black trees. Us, the fog and I –
we remained in November and counted our stacks. It’s passive.
It’s exponential. We hit our quota once and then a few more times
for good measure.
I showed up to the testing center, the fog trailing behind me, a journal tucked into my elbow.
My breath still smelled of ocean or grass or tea - maybe Earl Grey - or of the pearls wedged between my teeth. They tell me no you cannot bring that book with you but I tell them look harder and they tell me no and the fog shows them and they tell me go ahead.