(no subject)
at the used book store, i stand for a long time in the empty aisle, flipping through a biography of maria merian and a golden guide to seashells of the world. i catch phrases in the former like as a girl, stole tulips to paint and the virtue of roots and flesh flushed of toxins and baked into bread. in the latter, i run my fingers over common cowries and wentletraps, the spiny mouths of murices. the owner of the store gives me a strange look when i eventually set my stack of books on the counter, looks at me even more strangely when he notices that i'm humming along to the arthur russell playing through the stereo.
when i get home, the apartment is empty. i set my bag by the coat rack, go into my room, turn the radiator on, strip down to nothing, lie on my bed. it's cold, but it doesn't really bother me. my skin puckers, turns pail. i notice bruises -- small, the size of fingertips -- on my thighs from the night before and feel very lonely.
i set world of echo on repeat and then fall asleep without covering myself. i dream of jeremy (as always) though he's laughing (which is new). we're near the ocean's edge and he presses two giant conch shells against his head as though they were the exaggerated pink ears of a comical merman. i beg him to stop, there might be a creature inside still, still and dark and full of poison. but he can't hear me. the sound of the waves becomes increasingly loud until i place my hands over my own ears. i see then that the flesh of my fingers is really abalone. my fingers shine purple and green, like bruises pressing themselves into the skin on my temples. i wake then, suddenly. the room is still cold and i get under the covers.