Trying to keep myself busy, I practice war.
I count the motes of dust on my screen, Out Loud,
Because I must be careful with detail
And dust is nothing if not detailed.
I say “motes of dust” to nobody in particular
Because it feels good to put words into my mouth.
I make a list of weaponry
That I will need for my practice of war
Because it feels good to make lists.
Thin and sharp and shiny.
I want something new—I will test it on myself.
It should be so sharp that I do not feel the wound until later,
When I am sitting at my desk
And suddenly notice that my shoes are filled with blood,
That my hands and calves are damp,
That I have left footprints, tell-tale and horrifying,
From the car to the coffee-shop to the classroom.
The blade, unlike my blood-filled body,
Will be neat and sharp.
Preferably something fit for a dragon
But more likely it will be a metal garbage can lid.
In a pinch, those are pretty handy.
I will clean it with rhetoric and antimicrobial sponges
And strap it to my body with coral-colored ribbons.
When I take the elevator, I will make sure to stand at the back,
So nobody has to maneuver awkwardly around the bulk.
This will also minimize the stares, I imagine.
Blood Red Leather and tall-tall-tall.
I refuse to sacrifice elegance for practicality.
I do not think those things are mutually exclusive, and
I am carrying a garbage-can-lid-shield, after all.
This is war.
I must use all the weapons in my arsenal if I plan to win.
And I do.
I plan to win.