That's What They Say

Sometimes, when I don’t want to leave the house, I let my dog out the back unattended. Last night, she pooped in the walk way, off to one side. Over the next six weeks, I watched her feces decompose, running through every stage to total re-immersion into the earth.

Peanut says I need to get out more. She doesn’t say it like that, though, because it would be too cliché.

My analyst thinks I need to settle down and relax, concentrate on my psyche. At least, I think that’s what he thinks.

My best nonfriend thinks I should run away, like her. It does change things, always looking for the unknown, rather than looking at it.

I’m not so dissatisfied as everyone says I am, but they’re quite convincing.

I’ve got all the classic signs of an alcoholic, and it runs in my family. As much as a bad habit turned addiction can run in a family. We all have addictive personalities, I guess they would say. But they’re just making excuses, because everyone wants to be addicted to something.

I like to work out, do physically hard things, because I like to feel the difference between my mind and my body.

I drink the most when I drink by myself, and that’s when I think about death.

I was lying just then, but I thought it’d make me more intense; I thought you’d take me more seriously.

I actually think about death when I’m at parties full of people.

The homeless man outside my office holds a sign that says, “Homlee, Hungry,” and I actually envy him his honesty.

Peanut says I need a change. She says it’s time to cheer up, and be happy. But I didn’t know I wasn’t happy.

But perception is fleeting, and so are these thoughts.

Life Like Water

Sometimes life becomes like 8 feet of water. What you see is blurry, what you hear is muffled, and all you feel is the inside of your head. You concentrate all your energy on your motion, because if you stop, you'll float.

He would.

He would kiss my eyelids to wake me up in the morning. There would be silence in sadness and happiness. He would hold my head below his, but also above. There would be pride and encouragement, not envy and depreciation. I would smile when his back is turned. He would think a lot, but say only the unimportant things.

A Lesson

“Here, do you want me to do it?” She rests her pinky on my cheek firmly, and I close my eyes. I think of her with a Styrofoam headdress and a close-lipped smile. It was for her low self-esteem my mother had told me. I was shocked.

“You put the dark color on the lid.” She blows hard into the synthetic, black fibers. Her hand lowers to the little plastic box, and she swiftly drags the brush across the packed crystals four or five times. “I’m not sure what this medium color is for, probably the middle.” She rests the ridge of her palm on my cheekbone.

Where had that gold dress come from? It dragged the ground when she walked across the stage. I was nervous for her and imagined myself in her place.

She drops the brush into the bag and swoops up a two-sided one. I open my eyes and look at the freckles on her face. “Angel kisses,” my mother called them. A few even spill over onto her lips. “Take the smaller side of the brush with the lightest color and highlight the arch, just beneath the eyebrow, like this.”

I wonder if they really taught her these things at modeling school. She liked to practice on me when I was younger, but she scolded me for having such small lips. She said my top lip was practically non-existent.

As she turns back to her own hand mirror, I pull out my two-sided lip-gloss. One side is for the color, one for the shine. I apply it, then turn and watch her.

Did they tell her how beautiful she is at that school? She wore a teal-green shirt and her hair down in the pictures. The gold dress had a slit up one side, but she didn’t win.

She zips her make-up bag and looks over at me. “Wow.” She pushes her hand mirror at me. “Look how pretty you are.”

Disappointed

Raindrops hit different formations of cement, pool, and slide away.  I apply to school, plan my life around it, and get rejected.  Roots crack the sidewalks, and I continue to write.  Umbrellas, pointed roofs, rubber, and Vinyl.  Drainpipes and gutters.  And I’m still all wet.

If you asked me what's the point, I wouldn't answer.

He just called to say I told you so.

We only meet on your terms.

I remembered yesterday what it was like to share things with someone. It gives off this tingling warm feeling in my chest like radiation. It simulates the feeling of the womb.

She likes it when I'm too busy; it means we can hang out.

I just wanted to be alone for a minute, and something scattered from my head.

An Existential Pilot

It is a round silver button on my desk with the word "pilot" in all capitol letters.

I would like to turn my thoughts into numbers and divide them into categories. Then I could make a coversheet for each group, gather the corners into a stack, and slam my palm against the button to seal them together. Forever.

Jenine has several children, and I'm sure they keep her occupied. She has an attentive husband: he keeps her content. She loves her job and hugs her coworkers. But does she feel sometimes like she's in a clear box tumbling through space, interacting with people through it's deceptive walls (like me).

She takes me to the bathroom to show me how the squeak of the door sounds exactly like that pop song. I guess it's the little things for everybody.

When the Wind Blew

I toppled over when the wind blew and I wasn't able to get up, leaving me lying here after I grew up.

I looked deep inside your painting of a picture of a moment in your head. Now it's in my head, but in a different setting. That's my heart.

I hurt when I look at you because I'm outside you and there's this thing between us; I think it's a wall. But not a real wall, but a glass wall, a glass that's so cleanly polished that it's so clear that you can't see it. It's a quarter of an inch thick, and you can see it if you look at it from the side.

I looked at you from the side and I saw something familiar that I'd never seen before and I forgot where I was. Then you told me to snap out of it, but I couldn't, because I just can't help myself. When I get carried away.

It isn't love and it isn't lust and I don't think it has to do with my hormones or my private parts, but just my head. I want you for my mother because I never had one and I figured out that that's why I'm so lonely all the time.

But if you held me, I'd cry.

And the plate glass between us and between us and the world and between the world and me: it keeps the heat in but it keeps the cold in, too. And I'm cold.

And tired.

But don't think that makes it okay for you to come any closer. Come closer to the edge with me because that's where I'm comfortable and it'd be fun to see you there or someone there with me because it gets pretty lonely.

So, maybe that is what it is and I am in love with you because I wouldn't know what it is if it were there and I saw it. But I don't know what to call it or what it would mean if you called it and I saw it and I knew it and we called it out together.

I don't think it would change.

Things Become Automatic

My kitchen ceiling bows. When my roommate suggested it might be full of water from our overflowed toilet, I let out two loud guffaws and backed out of the kitchen.

The light cover over my bathroom sink is held on by a nut, which barely fits, but turns twice. After I replaced the light bulb last night, I brushed my teeth three feet away from the sink.

There's a mentally disabled man outside my metro stop, who comes really close when he asks for money in his one word sentences.  "Change," he says spasmodically.  I caught a glimpse of his eyes and my stomach gained twenty pounds.  So, I looked away.

I bought my first pair of running shoes last Christmas. I put them on and wondered why I waited seven years to bite the bullet.

Some people at my work talk about the people they meet in the countries they do stories in, others talk about whether the anchor is pregnant or not.

I'm teaching myself to think about money again, trying not to use my credit card. Now I ration myself shopping for things. This week I get to buy new make-up and mouthwash, next week household goods and groceries. Last week I splurged on clothes, which I hadn't done in a year. I don't remember becoming hard up.

I noticed today that the sore on my mouth is gone. I've had the same recurring sore for the past three years, but it goes away for a couple months during the winter. I think it's an iron deficiency. Better add vitamins to the shopping queue.

My favorite moment of the day is pulling my blanket over my shoulders, as I rub my legs up and down against the feather sack on my mattress.

When the cashier at Teaism frowned at me as I ordered my beer, I thought empathizing might make her smile. But she told me she had to work twice as hard as I did because she wasn't from my country. And my camaraderie with her only made her frown more deeply. I remember when I thought customers actually wanted to know when they asked me how I was. I didn't know I didn't want to know either.

I bought myself a brand new pair of ergonomic shoes, and the calluses began to soften right away.

I started giving money to the homeless again.

An Art Show

H. grounds her feet into the center of the hardwood floor, gripping her four ounce glass, half red with wine. She fills the room with her genuine smile, the kind that happens with your whole face. A result of the rare occurance of loving herself, only possible through her work. This occurance is always momentary, as doubt is swift, and an excellent robber of self-confidence.

In that moment, I adore her. There's nothing more beautiful than the face of self-love, and she's indulging in her moment. The reflective rectangles of images from her head cradle her from all sides of the room. She created these pictures, and everyone approves.

To My Unrequited Love

They said it was fear, but I know it was pride.

Filling me up...

My hand cracking the icy shell through to the powder beneath.

The blood stains on the sidewalk of a faraway place.

The 4x6 photo of my twin nieces with its thick black frame.

The tall, black street-man who smiles at me through his babbling by the Farragut North Metro.

The low moan of my full-bred Dalmatian when she needs my attention.

The frantic screams of family members touching hands to the body being carried on a make-shift stretcher.

The waggling jaw of the politician, or athlete, or movie star, sending out his message.

The satisfying click of the equals button on my calculator, hit emphatically.

The boxed smile I offer to whichever glazed figure appears in my latitudinal line of vision.

The polite chuckle I sometimes force to avoid further effort.

The words spilling across the screen, endlessly.

The itching creeping up through my guts, threatening my settlement.

The liquefied brine behind my eyes, alert for its chance.

A moment to reflect.

I'm full.

War

blue like cold, cold ice
ice like hearts of the blind
blind from walls, high into heaven
heaven only for the lucky
born there

haven't felt my face in weeks
your touch was numb
i forgot to feel

frozen hearts romp the earth
march in lines
line in the sand: do not cross

hurt flesh and hurt pride
the injured nuisance
count themselves lucky

I'll trade you a harmless devil for an innocent.

They said the non-shiny type was good for staying clean -- just a quick wipe with a wet cloth -- much easier than getting the shiny kind polished. As I watch the dusty black peanuts linearly enter and exit my line of site with the pendulum-swing of my legs, I wonder if there are limits to my laziness.

My morning walk is usually dedicated to the possible love-interests in my life. They are fantastical, yes, but one has to work with what one has, and, who knows? Maybe the News Editor at work secretly fantasizes about me, too, if he can remember my name.

But as I watch the white lines of the red bricks blur into pink underneath my shoes, my anger won't stop mounting until I feel the acid of my stomach creep into the back of my throat. I forgot breakfast again. But how can I eat with all the pale faces of almond-colored children filling up my head. Is that what the dead look like? Just a paler version of the living? I thought at least the eyes would have a white film over them, but, no: they're the same black discs of fright. Are they still scared?

"Maybe they should start looking at home for someone to blame!"

Yes, I suppose if they can have the same color eyes, they should be able to turn them to their parents, asking, "Why?" And I guess the parent should look into the dead eyes and say, "Because I failed you." And I suppose they do.

They drop leaflets in every town warning them of death. "Flee!" they say. But when they tell them where to go, they forget to tell them that that is the target. And when they don't, they mean to say, we warn you that death approaches so that you can die in fear.

"They have the right to retaliate!"

I don't know if you can call it a war, when one side is blocked in on all sides with weapons and military one-hundredth the size of the other. Not to mention they are blocked in with ten times their number in civilians.

"They're using human shields!"

Yes, I suppose, then, we should shoot through the children. Shoot straight through the black discs to the black hearts of the enemy. It's worth it, right?