It’s a wicked life
isn’t it
Trixie?
and that’s how you really feel
isn’t it
Trixie?
you’d like a different life
wouldn’t you?
One with everything
in
place.
The shelves lined with success.
The pictures framed with gold.
the memories fond,
the friendships strong.
the LIGHTS
the SOUNDS
the COLORS
the SHAPES
The theatrics
and the pomp.
It is all
you want.
So I’ll do my best
to act the part—
please forgive me if I stutter
or forget a line
we all need a reminder
from time to time.
go to the shelf
the one without accolades or awards
and retrieve for you and I
the book.
The one full of photographs
Taken at different rate of frame
and different shutter speeds
take a look through the archive
of days gone by.
hidden inside, you just may find
evidence that you were
once just fine.
(but is it that easy?)
With hat in hoof,
you moved.
Turned it upside
down.
With a smile hollowed out
a plume of smoke rose up.
And for a moment, you reached out—
(As if you’d ever been there in the first place)
—and you stepped back.
Is it difficult now?
To open those pages.
Will you do it anyway?
Just to remind yourself.
there are other possibilities.
How strange is this obsession
with moments that have passed
and will never be repeated
when the memory itself is already
so difficult to forget
why do we need to be reminded
of what we can no longer touch?
Or hear?
Or see,
Or hold.
do you suppose that maybe
silver iodide conjuring these images into temporary permanence
was not what any were ever meant to do?
or do you suppose that
there could be something
profoundly wrong
with you
and that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be?
Wrench the book open,
Trixie.
You don’t even need to start at the start.
It will all hurt your heart.
(As if that had ever been there in the first place)
Taxidermied time
Glowing and glistening
In its otherworldly shine
You can almost hear it again.
(almost.)
Run your hoof along the corner of the page
Feel how old this is
how long you have had it
and ponder how it has not even lived half its life
in your
possession.
Not to unearth any unpleasantness
of the past
but you can almost remember how she smiled
when she passed it on to you.
And yet
it remains
a mockery.
(what good are memories of the good times
when it feels as though there will never be
good times
ever
again?)
Ah! I see you’ve opened up to the wedding.
Excellent choice.
Look at how happy everyone is.
Look at how happy.
(as if you were ever happy in the first place)
you
stepped
back.
I don’t blame you,
Trixie.
You are flesh and bone,
just like everyone you know.
(Except, of course,
those photos.)
Flesh and bone,
just like everyone you know,
just like all of us.
As such,
you have your
fears and doubts.
which rarely slip out
Yet you show them off in the display
When you perform on stage
All can see it
clear
as
day.
I know.
(i’ve felt the same way)
It’s a wicked life,
Isn’t it,
Trixie?
filled with both good
and bad.
yet, doesn’t it feel...
(like these scales were tipped long before you?)
As if the photographs
(that you hate)
Which live in the book
(that you hate)
Have somehow,
in their timelessness,
always existed.
as if Trixie Lulamoon
(who you hate)
was an inevitability.
pick another page.
One of your first shows!
How precious.
What humble beginnings for
The Great
And Powerful
(so great and powerful)
Trixie.
Now look at you!
Isn’t this the life you always wanted?
Couped up in your little wagon?
Wandering the lands?
Begging for scraps
Like a dog
in the streets?
Unrecognized by any and all?
At least from the bottom
there’s nowhere to fall.
Trixie,
Trixie,
Trixie.
You don’t need to say a word.
I already know.
And yes,
it is unfair
how a little mistake
can ruin your life like that.
how being just a bit too reckless
mars your reputation forever.
Everyone is flesh and bone.
Just
Like
You.
(so what’s wrong with me?)
Flipping through the pages now
It is only reasonable
To feel the anger
And dismay
That comes with
looking in
through a window in time
back to a place you are never allowed to return.
The rage it inspires?
That is normal.
For once,
you are normal.
(“for once”)
It doesn’t matter
to whom this album once belonged
they are all dead.
they are all gone.
except for
in this book.
in this horrible mockery,
they are trapped.
Why don’t you set them free?
Everyone else
will just be forgiven for anything
While you are guilty
of everything.
doesn’t it make sense to just
let go
of the reins
and riding crop
and give yourself
a well deserved rest?
(so set them free.)
Any last wishes
or contemplations
before you join them
in the afterlife of ashes?
nothing of each other
nothing of you
nothing.
nothing left.
(...)
Oh,
Trixie.
You are adorable.
Please, believe the lie
that you will be missed
when you are gone.
(Set them free.)
Take a last look
At the empty shelves of failure
notice now, as you always have
the poverty and squalor
you exist within
(because you could not call this living)
all of this
in pursuit of your passion
was it worth it?
don’t answer.
(Set them free.)
Set yourself free.
Bleed for all eternity.
Pawn your tragic history for a bit or three.
But don’t
expect more.
The overwhelming majority of lives
were much more interesting than yours.
Much more interesting than mine.
(SET THEM FREE!)
You tossed the book on the stove,
and watched it burst to flame.
You choke on the smoke,
you watch them wither away.
All of them trapped there,
who were dead anyway,
yet as you watch the last photographs
of you and your mother together
when you were so young that
your memory does not evoke
the true nature of what it was
rather some vague facsimile
of what had once been
not too dissimilar
to the photos
but
weaker
and
further
away
you
began
to
wonder
if
you
made
another
terrible
irreparable
irreversible
mistake.
Lay down,
Trixie.
Lay down
in the center
of your wagon
and let
the flames
take you
as
they
have
taken
that book of scraps.
Lay down,
Trixie.
Lay down
and accept
the pure misery
and agony
that will give way to
something
(Anything.)
more beautiful
and less painful
than this
existence.
“Everyone else
will just be forgiven for anything
While you are guilty
of
everything.”
It’s a wicked life,
Isn’t it
Trixie?
Feels almost as if
you were meant to be crushed.
Meant to believe in love.
Built to break.
An army of
An army of
An army of
(You and who’s?)
…
…
You still have a friend.
You have not met them yet.
Yet they are there.
In some distant timeline.
She loved you.
She loved you.
(Love?)
Don’t get your hopes up.
An army of
And yet,
Why are you still
trying so hard
to please
all who despise you?
(I just want—)
What?
(I just—)
…
(Want to be…)
(Loved.)
It’s a wicked life,
Isn’t it
Trixie?
Your shoulders were not meant to hold this weight.
After all—
You were
(Built to break.)
An army of
Yes,
All it is
Is
An army of
Imperfect animals
An army of
Imperfect animals
An army of imperfect animals
An army of
Imperfect animals
Demanding perfection
From other armies of
Imperfect animals
All those little cells
Little animals
Troops marching in their units
Units marching as the army
That you are
Orders from
high command
do not reach
each
battalion
and each battalion
will not listen
the same
as they
once did.
Each imperfect animal
Holds the power
To rebel
These armies
will collapse
from within
just as readily
as they fall
to
one
another.
The army of
(imperfect animals
that
i
am)
the way it fought so valiantly
against any and all.
yet,
you, yourself
just an
(imperfect animal.)
rebelling in
your army of
(imperfect animals.)
Waiting, to see
if any part of your army of
(imperfect animals.)
will turn
all to teeth
to
consume
you
from
within.
Her eyes, your mother’s eyes,
they were dull
until her day
of reckoning
until the revolution
took her away
from you.
and the sun?
you hate the sun.
you wish,
in your darkest night
that even the moon did not reign your life
after all
what is it but
just cold sunlight
No sun.
No heat.
No moon.
(not even the stars.)
A cold, dead world.
A void,
your life.
And what about
your trust?
your love?
(my hope?)
Did you ever
have any of that
at all?
(...)
Close your eyes.
Dream of the lie.
You will be missed when you die.
(and she might save my life.)
No deus ex
no machina.
when a single soldier falls
the army goes on.
no stars?
no stars.
no light from above
just the glow all around
the flames licking your coat
(and my lungs filled with smoke.)
We are all
An army of imperfect animals
And we are all
All teeth
And know
No
(Hope.)
Author's Note
