The Park Bench

I lay my cheek on the warm wood – soft and splintered: I want to get closer to him as he walks away. Perhaps the silent wood can communicate for him. I take in the wet air sharply: does it smell like him? I rub my cheek against the grain, tingling for the danger of penetration. It must have collected something of his presence that I can steal back. I close my eyes and wait.

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.