No, you're not. You're a face.
I'm a body in the celestial sense, said my face. Or, like a body of water. You never say, a face of water, do you?
OK. Well, what's your point, I asked.
I'm a mass of something very interesting. I'm my own substance. My own self. I love you, but you sometimes treat me like I don't really exist in my own right. I have a life of my own, you know. I do a lot you never think about, don't seem to even care about. I stay busy. I know a lot more than you do about how to actually function.
Why, thank you for pointing that out, face. Did I do something that made you feel it was necessary to bring that to my attention?
My face laughed. It had been recently shaved, painted, stretched into a smile because a smile looks better than what it felt like doing. It was tired from lack of sleep, the muscles hanging from it, the skin pale.
I laughed at my face. But in doing so, my face laughed at me even harder. I tried to laugh harder at my face than my face but I had to give up. As you can imagine.
My face is a body of faceness. And today, it is not smiling. It is not laughing at me. It is asleep.
--Tantra Bensko teaches Experimental Literature. Naissance Press ands 10 Pages Press published her chapbooks, and Night Publishing accepted her full length book, Lucid Membrane. She has over 150 creative writing publications including several in magazines that gave her awards, such as Carolina Quarterly, where she won the Academy of American Poets Award, Cezanne's Carrot, Punkpen, Medulla Review, The Iowa Journal of Literary Studies, Rose and Thorn in their nomination for Pushcart, and Medulla Review, which later dedicated an issue to Lucid Fiction and asked her to co-edit it. She runs Exclusive Magazine, and the resource site, Experimental Writing, http://experimentalwriting.