Bonsai Dragon

The most frightening people are the ones who have nothing to lose. Once you’re pushed far enough to shed your morals like a reptile’s skin or a naked goddess’s swan coat, you are free to do anything.1

I cannot be pushed. I choose whether or not to allow myself to be affected by something. When it is enough, I will choose to give way. I have complete and utter control over myself. You have heard of the cliché idea of having a secret beast on the inside, ready to tear through? Oh yes, I do have one of those. I’m sure we all do, too, to some extent. But many people keep their dragons on loose chains. Mine has been bound like a bonsai kitten in a bottle. I only allow it to grow so large. I prod it and admire it from angles, like the immobile t-rex pinned to the ground in Jurassic Park. My dragon has not moved once--ever--since birth.2

I can’t wait for the day that I can let go. I want to lose every single fucking thing I hold precious, the last and most precious thing being myself. I want to ax everyone off, I want to run away, I want to slice my skin to ribbons without caring for the first time (funny, I wouldn’t feel a thing), I want to be drunk with colors, I want to screw people and not care. I am a straight-A student, I am perfect, I am National Honor Society, I do community service regularly. I am obligated to do everything. I do nothing but homework when I get home, I research things for fun, I listen to people’s problems, I let people copy answers, I teach people. I pay for their movie tickets and breadsticks and I buy them rings and jewelry. I love the earth, I love turtles, I do not hate a single person. I am politically correct. I am nice.3

I am corrupt. My morals waver. I have no religion. (These are two independent things.) I learn my morals from life and others. I am polygamous, I am far away, I stare intensely at nothing. I tell the truth about everything. I hate my real face and I tear it apart and reconstruct it--literally--every morning and every night. I hate people only when they look at me when I know my makeup is bad or when I’m running out of it. I like big eyes and bright colors. My face comes off in flakes around the nose and mouth, revealing that my face is really pink and that the mask--previously thought to be skin-color--is really yellow. I like chains that tinkle and jounce, and I am ashamed of them. Betrothed, I still masturbate. I like the color blue because it is cold and pretty and as meaningless as the sky, which is really the ocean.4

I am connected to people. I watch but do not act. I am in a bottle. I gather, but do not use. I could, but I don’t. I should, but I won’t. My ass is sore because I’m sitting on my bed with my brain wired to sound and I have only licorice for my dinner and I am putting off whatever I’m supposed to be doing. Alone, alone. I can tip my head back, a quick jerk, and feel some killer’s blade across it. I can cry and swallow it back (like a gag reflex before one loses it to bulimia) and play tough girl. I tell the truth and everything, but I have many secrets because people don’t ask questions. From some people, these secrets have to be kept--even when life would be easier if the truth were known, some people would hate my truth. My dragon, my bonsai dragon, I will continue to clip your nails and pluck your wings with tweezers until the one day I decide to give these painstaking chores up.5