poetry by Corinne Bills
Despair is fresh in every breath. Crystals foam from exhales carved from every lung, every universal consciousness and every personal failure to judge the windpipe that hosts their birth. We are the afterbirth that bubbles at her coos, dedicated to ignoring the pollution we evolve into. We may create crystals from our cells, but creation is committed to its intention. The intention is and always has been to pollute our mother.
This is her territory. We kick and scream and thrash ourselves into her skin, forgetting that our replications are nurtured by her ability to coexist. We burrow and we breathe, and we dig our heels into her pores and still, desire another place. There is flattery in the words she inspires but really, we write her a mirror of autonomy. Listing wrinkles and sagged muscle, we critique her beauty as unfruitful, as unbecoming. Choosing instead to praise the surgery we force upon her body, praise the new, declare our work almighty. Again, flattery is just refashioned self-discovery as each breath is rebranded desire.
Our birth is dependent. We are swaddled as our innovation tries to swallow each fresh despair. Still we carve deeper into her core, knowing that the carvings we make need to be worth her fumigation. If you chose to stand still, there is nothing but to watch her devastation from generation to generation. As you hold your crystals, you allow this sparkling waste. Can you spot the problem? We magnify and repeat the contradiction. Most will disown their crystals to validate their existing. This is immaculate convention; we devour ourselves as we abandon her plight.
Indigestion is vain. She is trapped. However suffocating, this is a light-hearted hopelessness. We breathe despair into her body, then refuse to take ownership of the waste we have committed her to. Every mouthful of our lungs needs to be mortal. Each bite needs to reject the core of pride else what is the point of innovation? To take ownership of being the innovator is problematic, the individual cannot cure all for maternal connection is the vital step. Without universal feeling, there is nothing but the next breath, the next unchecked promise, the next poisonous mineral. It will foam at our mouths whilst she yearns, wishing this mirror showed her something worth aching for.