I look closely, and the circles turn to octagons, closer: edges soften into wounds with the skin grown over, fog, blank paper, night with the stars and moon smudged out in lampblack.
Have you ever looked at the dark through a microscope? If you adjust the settings so that you think that the instrument is broken, it becomes easy to observe. Dark is the dullest thing I’ve seen. Most things change when you look closer, but dark remains the same. If I stare long enough, perhaps I will feel as if I haven’t been born yet? I wonder if there is any light inside a womb? Does some stubborn ray filter through the sediment of skin and fat and muscle of a stomach, through me, when I was not born yet. Did I see colors behind my eyes, when they were still fused shut? I want to be a shadow that the sun makes, if only for a century (not too long as I am terrified of not being frightened).
The dolls in my room are silent. I tried so hard to make them people, once upon a time. Their minds are a stew of cork and cardboard: tragically unedible. As for me, my mind is shut today, eyelids propped up from behind with corinthian columns. Forgive me, then, as I cannot pry open the lid of my scalp right now. keys through my ears… soul like a jack-in-the-box popping out from the shell of moon that they call a skull. Today I am a zoetrope. When will the meteors arrive? I’m weary of circles, and the lenses beneath my lids are too glazed over with almond-icing to form octagons again.