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by Matthew Burnside *to be used sparingly, in the 25 days immediately following a broken heart; if symptoms persist, consult your physician or psychic DAY ONE: A single bee will emerge to sting your nose. Can you feel it? Does it hurt? That means you’re still alive. DAY TWO: A swatch of their scent. In time there will be other smells, equally beautiful. If you can imagine other perfumes, that means you’re still alive. DAY THREE: A lock of their hair and a match. If you accidentally burn your finger, that’s good. That means you’re still alive. DAY FOUR: A love letter and pair of baby scissors. Make some confetti. In time there will be other things to celebrate, an occasion to use it. That means you’re still alive. DAY FIVE: A photograph and sharpie. Embellish their face with cartoonish flourishes--a mustache, devil horns, artistically subpar tattoos, etc. When you laugh, that means you’re still alive. DAY SIX: A shot. When it burns your throat going down, that means you’re still alive. DAY SEVEN: An iPod with your song. Listen to it until you realize how silly the lyrics are, how mediocre its melodic arrangements. When it sounds like noise instead of music, that means you’re still alive. DAY EIGHT: A twenty-dollar bill. Use it to buy yourself a meal, preferably something you want that they hated. Eat it alone, for the practice. In time food will taste flavorful again. That means you’re still alive. DAY NINE: A skeleton key. Use it to fill the space where their apartment key used to be. In time there will be other doors, other buildings, other rooms. When you can imagine moving through them, that means you’re still alive. DAY TEN: A sprig of mugwort. Eat it whenever you miss the malady of their kiss. In time there will be other lips, not as bitter. When you can taste them, that means you’re still alive. DAY ELEVEN: A pocket watch. Wind it. It’s yours. The whole of a life isn’t contingent on yesterdays. If you can hear the ticking, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWELVE: A mystery seed. Plant it. You’ll have to wait around to see what it could be. When you can imagine other things growing, that means you’re still alive. DAY THIRTEEN: A fingernail? It’s gross, I agree. As it withers, eventually decomposing, growing soft and sludge-like, seek something new. Anything beautiful can become ugly. When you can fathom the inverse again, that means you’re still alive. DAY FOURTEEN: A condom. When you can grasp its utility, that means you’re still alive. DAY FIFTEEN: A vial of ink. When you can imagine writing another name, that means you’re still alive. DAY SIXTEEN: A bookmark. Upon returning their books or getting all your books back that you let them borrow, use it to read something new. When you can relish words that don’t just come out of a certain mouth, that means you’re still alive. DAY SEVENTEEN: A feather. Use it to trace a shape on your pillow that’s not their face. When it’s unmarred by any profile’s impression but your own, that means you’re still alive. DAY EIGHTEEN: A round stone to skip across the lake. Nothing skips forever. When it sinks, that means you’re still alive. DAY NINETEEN: A fishhook, for all the other fish in the sea. When you can envision your boat adrift once more, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY: A Russian doll. Take them apart. Throw one away. Put them back together. When the doll is fine, even with one part missing, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY-ONE: A pair of dice. When you can see rolling them again, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY-TWO: A placebo pill. When you realize it isn’t necessary for your system to survive, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY-THREE: A Lego brick. To step on every time you remember something they said that turned out to be untruthful in the end. When you can walk still, that means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY-FOUR: A tiny snow globe. Shake it well, observe the flurries swirling. Accept the storm and its imminent passing. When there is serenity again, you will be able to see through the glass. In time there will be much else to see. That means you’re still alive. DAY TWENTY-FIVE: Another bee, but this one won’t sting. Won’t waste its sting on someone who wouldn’t appreciate it. Its lancet will remain intact. It will move through the window, through the air, until it finds a field of flowers, lumbering toward its sweetness. In time it will inherit nectars, gather gardens. It will float on, biding its sweetness for a death worth dying for, which means it’s still alive.  Matthew Burnside is the author of five books, including the forthcoming Wiki of Infinite Sorrows (KERNPUNKT, 2021), a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, and recipient of a Truman Capote Fellowship. You can find more about his work on his website or on Twitter at @MatthewBurnsid7.
4/12/2021 On the Eerie and Prescient Similarities Between The Dark Knight Rises and The Capitol Insurrectionby Levi Rogers“We take Gotham from the corrupt! The rich! The oppressors of generations who have kept you down with myths of opportunity, and we give it back to you... the people.” |
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