I call myself an animal because no one will admit that my body is a tourist spectacle.
Admit. The word seems paralyzed.
But you are a human.
Humans are animals.
They don’t think of themselves as animals.
But humans are animals.
They are a “they.”
And you are something else.
Yes, a vintage toy in its original packaging.
A tortured song.
The bubbling swamp of decomposition.
I am not that.
Not yet.
They say we have the security of slaves.
And no one cackled?
They lick us acidic and consume us in one gulp.
We are a delicacy. We are treated like the refuse of a feast.
You are the rancid soil of a graveyard.
You also are that.
When the wall falls, will we transform?
Into what?
A human animal.
The transformation will be relief.
And the animals?
The tiniest divot to denote the infinitesimal progress of a set of troglodytes on a tiny insignificant rock floating static in a glacial vacuum that contains mysteries and terrors these animals will never behold.
Companion video: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjnJM7jc/
Diana Spindler 