JohannaOlson

Palms

Apr
16
My hands hurt from all the productivity they have attempted. For trying to produce something that they can hold and give and see as theirs. They ache at being overworked and under-cared. Still, they want something to hold. They contemplate growing more fingers and palms and nails-that-could-be-painted simply to reach further, grab wider, and grip tighter. Instead, they drop what they were already holding and begin to shake out of both pain and desire. And they wonder – what are hands if they do not hold or push or grip or shape or write or caress.
Meanwhile, they die. They are no longer mine.

Toilet Truth

Feb
15
Today… I lifted up the toilet seat and found two flies sitting on top of it. I waved my hand in front of them to ensure that they were still alive and capable of flight. I sat down trying not to dwell on the unusual occasion of toilet seat flies.
There’s been a rumbling in the plumbing system of my apartment. An apocalyptic melody moving its way towards me. Water trying to escape from the guts of my kitchen sink.
Conclusion… Everywhere I look there are signs of non-human activity working behind the scenes in my life.
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