the brightness of my irises does nothing to reassure me
i can't talk anymore.
There is blood. There is blood on my face and between my thighs, but nowhere I want it to be. I keep picturing lines on my wrist and my thigh and my ankles and my neck and my back but I wasn't picturing the pink tinges when they appeared on the tissue paper this afternoon, that spelled doom for my appointment on Friday, and a quiet end to one of the more illogical things I've ever pretended not to want. But there is a blackness in the quiet, a final wall slamming down, the very last point shoved off a cliff. (I think of your arm between my breasts, your fingertips resting lightly but oh-so-obviously against the most prominent scar left on my chest. You sought it out and set your fingers there, you knew exactly where to find it, calculated inventory of the lines on my skin. "'Cause I don't like feelin' 'um in my sleep!" You can lie with your eyes and with your lips. It was cold but I understood it. You can lie with your eyes and your lips but take your goddamned hands off my scars. It was the worst thing you could ever do [question mark].) Things are shutting down. The new doctor with her thick, unplaceable accent said that otherwise, I was completely healthy. I was too tired to laugh.
The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, edited for time and content, sent me into a frenzy in the middle of the night, stumbling through the house in panic. It was me on the lawn, in the rain, with the belt. A different little boy with marks on his pale skin. I had to find your words, written through my hand, the back page of a journal, an old memory, and repeat them over and over to myself, trying to remember your voice, until my lungs could accept the oxygen, instead of just sucking it in so fast it made me dizzy. Kissing my little sister on the cheek to silently scream to the Universe that I would've been okay.
I say too much and wonder who's eyes still come here. And grammar. I wonder about grammar.
I am sorry that all I am is pain, lately.
what if I can't do it without you?
There is blood. There is blood on my face and between my thighs, but nowhere I want it to be. I keep picturing lines on my wrist and my thigh and my ankles and my neck and my back but I wasn't picturing the pink tinges when they appeared on the tissue paper this afternoon, that spelled doom for my appointment on Friday, and a quiet end to one of the more illogical things I've ever pretended not to want. But there is a blackness in the quiet, a final wall slamming down, the very last point shoved off a cliff. (I think of your arm between my breasts, your fingertips resting lightly but oh-so-obviously against the most prominent scar left on my chest. You sought it out and set your fingers there, you knew exactly where to find it, calculated inventory of the lines on my skin. "'Cause I don't like feelin' 'um in my sleep!" You can lie with your eyes and with your lips. It was cold but I understood it. You can lie with your eyes and your lips but take your goddamned hands off my scars. It was the worst thing you could ever do [question mark].) Things are shutting down. The new doctor with her thick, unplaceable accent said that otherwise, I was completely healthy. I was too tired to laugh.
The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, edited for time and content, sent me into a frenzy in the middle of the night, stumbling through the house in panic. It was me on the lawn, in the rain, with the belt. A different little boy with marks on his pale skin. I had to find your words, written through my hand, the back page of a journal, an old memory, and repeat them over and over to myself, trying to remember your voice, until my lungs could accept the oxygen, instead of just sucking it in so fast it made me dizzy. Kissing my little sister on the cheek to silently scream to the Universe that I would've been okay.
I say too much and wonder who's eyes still come here. And grammar. I wonder about grammar.
I am sorry that all I am is pain, lately.
what if I can't do it without you?
posted by Angela at 6:35 AM
2 Comments:
You're a fuckin good writer. Very compelling. Slightly incomprehensible without knowing the context. But the mood....
Shit.
Did you edit?
I was sure I read
"It was cold but I understand it. You can lie with your lies and your lips."
I thought it was very clever to make that little change on the repeat.
And aside from the writing...... I wanted to find a way to make you feel less alone. I can't imagine there are many people your age who'd get it. Who'd get a tiny bit of what you're living. Probably not that many people in the world. Maybe if you lived in a war zone.
Anyway.
I guess I'm saying I'm thinking of you.
You should start writing short stories.
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