the waltz conquers me
By Calum Burton (@calumwrites)
How do you conceptualise torn flesh when your mouth gives you away as it screams ‘woe is me’ without consent? This world is not consensual, and consequently, I wilt. Fragility shouts and scratches with its talon-less nails. Still, I lunge with futile efforts in hopes of harnessing utility.
People abide by their January resolutions while I wait for the confrontation that awaits me. The cold doesn’t bite me so much as it knows it can kick down my doors with a push of a hand. Gold frosted tranquil seems so distant from my mortal body, situated at the farthest part on mountain tops. Perhaps the lack of resolution or two is what places me in this familiar state.
Somehow I fail to carry out the social placards handed out to me; son, queer, adult, student, writer. A masquerade ball is hosted inside my stomach, what we were taught in childhood as ‘butterflies.’ Usually in saying ‘I have butterflies’ one stated they were nervous about going back to school, speaking to a friend you’d quarrelled with, or knowingly forgot your homework. Then what are perpetual butterflies? We know the answer; anxiety.
Nights like these magnify my anxious tendencies, however, a change in this formulaic waltz must transpire. Instead of being the effect of a dance of doom I shall join the waltz – yes, I’ll take my place in the center. An excellent solo showcase as my fingers spill my confessions onto the digital page. The page in which others will see through a few clicks. Creation superimposes the suffering and agony of silence. Suffering and agony of silence that no longer remains mine, as I prefer to convince myself. Reconfiguring the jargon of my inner cognitions makes me feel as if I’ve cracked a code, an imaginary government of corruption inhibiting this process has been overthrown. And all simply through the act of revelation.
There is another segment of these ‘butterflies’ that chews at my shoelaces. Time is on my back exactly like a spider weaving mandalas of webs around me, wrapping me in my misgivings. Misgivings of my ability. Self doubt likes to hold a knife to my neck, nipping at my patchy flesh. But never enough blood to cause wandering eyes to care. They say ‘what is meant to be will be’, yet even now when I acknowledge myself I dawdle on the ponderings of what I could’ve been. Something I don’t like to admit, as we search for hope not dread, is that fear strangled me by the throat. Even though I survived, survivor’s guilt lingers for what I didn’t do for the sake of wandering eyes.
I made myself dull. My incisions made clean. Refined my rough edges, believing the weird and imperfect were a crime in itself. My incandescence I morphed into greys and autumnal tones, just so I would be passed by with a wandering gaze which left no hint of the quizzical. All that effort to simplify myself to end up facing a world where the whimsy is commodified, clouding myself once more in confusion. What is expression? How do I reclaim this opposition to judgement, to sharpen my claws and lick my blood-stained lips? Somehow writing reassures me of this. Words and discovery of such synonymities permit me sections of my fluorescent heart. Where I cover my arteries in foil and armour I embrace the masquerade in which the participants rid themselves of their masks and pseudo identities.
My resolution is singular; no placard fills me. I am a box that isn’t meant to be ticked. I’m a box that is meant to be scribbled in mismatched crayons and sliced out to be used for a piece of artwork. A piece that means nothing and everything all at once. I believe this freeform exists in everyone. All we must do is unlock the mysteries inside us. Conquer it. Feel it. Extract it. Beautify it.
Calum Burton lives and writes in the East of England. If he isn’t with his two cats, writing, reading or knitting, then he is studying for his bachelor’s degree in Psychology. Calum writes poetry and short stories in which he plans to publish a collection on queer loneliness. He can also be found at @calumwrites on Instagram and headinthepage on Substack.
