Charlie James
Infested
It’s the week after fall break
And my room is crawling with bugs
They’re coming from the crack in the ceiling
And from behind the heater
I think I kill over a hundred within the hour
My little yellow trash can is filled to the brim
Wings, legs, and bodies crushed in between crumpled paper towels
Which must be the opposite of those glass display cases filled with butterflies and moths
Their wings carefully pinned to show off their colors
Their corpses lie labeled, adored, and carefully admired
I begin to kill the bugs in groups
Three, six, twelve, or twenty at a time
Getting all the use out of one paper towel that I can
They go arm and arm
Wing pressed against wing
I think they know it’s better to die amongst friends
They always make their way
Across the no-man’s land of my white wall in pairs
I go to bed paranoid
Terrified their dead will start falling in droves from the ceiling
And I will wake up with a pile of their carcasses in my lap
With eggs planted behind the bed of my tongue
I feel their ghosts scurrying underneath my skin
Where they can whisper to me
Remind me they’re still there
As the days go on,
I get desperate in my killing spree
I clap a bug between my hands
Squish one underneath my thumb
With blood on my hands,
I bang against the window to scare away the ones lingering outside
Waiting for their opportunity for entry
If I can make these walls a fortress I will at the very least have no new bugs
It will only be a matter of time before I kill them all
And waiting things out is something I’ve gotten used to,
Then I remember bugs reproduce
It’s the week after fall break
And my room is crawling with bugs
All I can think now is that it’s my fault
I left the window open
On the Virgin Mary
I wonder constantly about what it means to be a woman. I consider myself to be quite disconnected from womanhood, but I’m not, really. If people look at me and see a woman, the rest sort of ceases to matter.
Her mouth is blushed pink, a corner lifted to imply a smirk. Her eyes have a slight glint to them; she looks like she wants to tell me something. I want to ask her what she’s thinking about. Does she, too, wonder about what part she’s meant to play? I doubt it. She is, above all things, important. I am yet another person stopped, standing and staring.
Womanhood has changed. I think it used to be miraculous. I think we all used to resemble saints, gilded, worshiped, and draped in veils in order to preserve the allure. I want to sew myself into this painting. Take a large-eyed needle and pull thread through my wrists–stab the canvas until it bleeds. We are, after all, connected in some way, this holy woman and I. Would she claim me? Would she brush the hair from my forehead to kiss me there? I doubt it.
I move on.
I wonder constantly about what it meant to be a girl. Now, girlhood is something I definitely have a claim to. Womanhood is elusive, girlhood is tangible. Girlhood got caught in my ribs and doesn’t know how to make her way out. The girl I once was is hiding behind me. Every time I try to catch her, she sprouts white bird wings and flies to, what is at that moment, a safer part of my body. She is hurt and scared and too jumpy. I am constantly trying to rid myself of her. She is the one so desperate to attempt womanhood. She is the one standing in front of this painting, matching the gaze and trying to slide my lips into the half smile of this woman I was told to model myself after.
She folds my hands. I hold them to my lips. She would be so ashamed of me, stuck failing at the one thing she wanted. To not be what people want is probably the scariest thing in the world.
It’s not her fault, though. Girlhood is disorienting. You need something you can latch on to, sink your teeth into, sew yourself close to. Womanhood only feels illusive once you step into it. As a girl, it is concrete, material. Made up of things you can smell, touch, and feel like lipstick. Blood. A pair of high heels.
What is there to reconcile between the images of this holy woman and me? I am barely a woman, and definitely not holy. I am a disillusioned sense of self.
I burned my arm with an iron once. I was young, but I think that’s the closest to womanhood that I’ll ever get.