Open Your Eyes

 I was told by my mother, “It’s important to listen to your elders,” which was quickly

followed by, “now, put on something nice.”

whatever “nice” was.

I slunk back to my bedroom

with the same droopy eyes

and plastered on a catalog page

over spiderman hanes.

I was told by classrooms that touching stoves would burn,

staring at the sun would blind,

and doing drugs would rot my brain.

However, they didn’t take notice that I’m one hell of a masochist.

I snuck to the janitor’s closet after that class with a sack of white rocks.

I was told by psychologists that talking to yourself is a bad sign

even after all the times we’ve caught each other in the act.

I was told by my grandmother’s funeral procession to open up my tears,

to pour out my emotion…

…I chose to smile and laugh because that’s what grandma and I did best.

I was told by a pastor that love belongs in monogamy

between a man and a woman and nothing more.

There can’t possibly be so much love in one person that it would split and spill into multiples

and any group of people agreeing on open terms such as these

have to be stained with poison.

I was told by all that these conventions should be taken seriously.

From each tongue I saw that certain honesty gleaming,

that hopeful intent beaming,

but the funny thing is, none of these lessons were learned from mistakes.

So screw conventions

Fuck ‘em

Fuck

Them

Violently rape them in a rusted dumpster

thigh high in soggy food scraps,

knuckles crushed around their baby hairs,

tracing their ribs with a chewed up plastic spoon,

scraping at the scabs,

eyes plucked upwards,

pawing with a sloppy jaw,

slowly sinking in through the skin.

I was told

that art

had to be beautiful.

-WildFievel