House Arrest

I never thought a city would take sides in a breakup, it never occurred to me that I’d be splitting the city with her some day, marking my spots with x’s and hers with o’s.

It’s all in my head, though, this diplomatic response to murder. The x’s and o’s don’t exist; a white winged dwarf named Cupid didn’t go rogue and double-cross me.  

The miniature boar never soaked his arrows in a pot of love elixir before lining up his shot; all I needed was a regular arrow to make me jump onto the intimacy bandwagon, I had already dosed myself with enough desperation and emotional dependency that even I had the little idiot fooled. 

The writings were on the walls all along, I just chose to dye them with her favorite colors.

The sun made a statement the next day by rising a minute too early, and there it was for all to see, the paint was dry; Badaro was hers and Hamra mine, the rest of Beirut was still in the dark, awaiting diligent external delegation. 

I wasn’t off the hook just yet though; like the city, I lost custody of my trail of thought, not out of favoritism, but rather, out of sheer frustration towards my reluctance to grow functioning ears.

Underneath this creaseless peace blanket, a woodpecker kept mistaking the insides of my head for a soft cedar tree, allowing me to believe she was going to pop up everywhere I went, building on this mental civil war I’ve overwhelmed myself with.

That obnoxiously loud clock hanging on living room wall finally had a purpose, it was pacing towards the eleventh hour; I knew a coup was coming. The walls jumped at me from behind, pushing down my shoulders towards the cold tiles under my feet, all while my thoughts rummaged towards the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers looking for the knives I sharpened the other day. It was their way of making me walk the plank. 

And just like that, I was court-martialed, facing a jury made up of my cat who had just turned one, last year’s calendar, and an alarm clock that was never lucky enough to get fixed on time. 

I didn’t have to wait for the verdict to know what was coming next. I called in Bukowski to sanction one last thing. I forced the little lion to put on his mane and stand guard in the hallway while I locked myself up in solitary confinement. 

It had been two days since I opened my prison door; even though I live alone, the apartment was roaring with change.

I accidentally started my own twisted Standford Prison experiment; Bukowski mistook his mane for a crown and my home for his jungle. 

I pressed down on the door-handle and pulled the door back, enough to let my head out. I found myself awkwardly sticking out in between my 23 plants, which were now uncomfortably standing in a perfect line with their wilting back-leaves crammed against the wall. They looked like they were waiting for some sort of scheduled assessment. 

The air was dry, it was unusual. I was so engrossed with my own thoughts for so long that I misjudged a household power struggle for a coming-of-age friendship between cat and plant. 

Word began to spread down the row that I had finally opened my door; whispers and muffled cries started leaping from stem to stem, as if to escape a forest fire at the head of the room, begging me to put an end to this petty crusade. 

Then I saw my cat, now a self-proclaimed king. He carried himself differently; the empty power I placed in between his paws had infused with his dormant hubris, making him out to be something he wasn’t.
Everyone saw a mad king, but I saw a kitten I rescued from my university campus. 

I put my hand out, snapped my fingers twice, and anxiously stuck my lips together to whistle a suppressing incantation.
Ps ps ps.
And just like that, the mad king’s reign tumbled as he wobbled his way towards me.