A 4000 piece puzzle sits atop a glass table… this large, flat, rectangle is the fruit of a summer of labor. A scene from the middle ages has sprung into creation. An alchemists chamber, with charts and tubes, globes, and powders. Thousands of small pieces have created this scene, tiny jigsaw shapes that all share the same darkened hues. Each small shape, with jutting sides and liquidous forms, each one varies just slightly from the others; like flattened cardboard snowflakes.
But there are some pieces missing, at least a dozen pieces are gone. And in their holes, a transparent shape rests in the color of nothingness. Perhaps they were never there, never made. A slight oversight in the maker. And now, this image is incomplete. It wrestles with itself. Gropes for unity and form.
Like my puzzle, my many shapes disguise themselves as beauty and caring. In here, when I truly look in, when I see the many egos dying for attention, when I feel jealous rage bite through words and pleasant smiles, when I feel with the compassion of a young, tender woman, when I kiss with the desire of a chained woman on her knees…I know that all of these share the same bed. These, and many others. They work together to form the image of this Lydia.
Missing pieces, dark shapes, curvy little chips of colored cardboard that manifest the strangeness. I feel them all. With the same breath I utter hopes and suggestions while some small part, barely more distinguishable than a cool breeze, but slightly darker in hue, whispers, almost inaudibly, for the worst.
It does not want hope. It does not want contact. It is out for itself. It wants control. It does not care, does not understand, not for a second, what we are trying to do. It lives within the darkest folds of my flesh, yet it springs to life, feeding off sparks of negativity. Enlivened by tears and sadness.
And while a part of me Works and laughs and is smooth and attentive, this other me watches with eyes slightly squinted. With ill intentions and ulterior motives barely passing unnoticed. And it is me. Not totally bad. Not completely good. Jealous sometimes. Ugly sometimes. Helpful sometimes. Joyous sometimes. Awake for slight moments.
They leak out like perspiration. They cover your fingers in clear love. They dribble from my eyes each morning. Asleep, I see only the good. Asleep, I see only the dark. Like a fucked up puzzle, I am many without clarity. Capable of beauty, capable of torture and brutal killing. Capable of infinite love and the sweetest of kisses. Dark, light, gray, green, red, yellow. It is all here, seeping out like poison on the wind.