Aug 23, 2008 23:27
I’m made of twigs and bit of paper
twined and woven together, I rustle as I move
Scraping my wooden fingers against the sky
Scratching on paper, leaving behind blood and shredded skin
Red ink and sawdust are my words
My eyes are pieces of broken glass,
my hair dried brittle grass
Last week a storm blew me apart
I was strewn across the wet pavement
Branches snapped
Ribs splintered
under heavy heels
My scattered eyes clicked and rolled
Stopped and laid
on the pavement
refracting the light from the sun that
finally came out
Wind blew me more, further apart
Hopelessly apart
Ju told me, “you only have yourself to blame.”
Then I’d made some crack about wishing I was fighting in Iraq so I had the government or Bush or whoever to blame.
It wasn’t until 10:21 that night, the first drink of the night flooding my empty stomach, that I actually heard what he’d said, his voice playing off the scratchy tape of my memory as I licked liquor from my lips and tried not to smudge my makeup by rubbing my eyes.
(blink)
Another drink slides across the smooth bar-top in a pool of sticky liquid. Fingers find wet glass. People prickle at the edge of my senses like clinging nylon. I barely hear them.
I hate him. For saying that, for being right.
I hate him for being essentially good while I was essentially bad. Julian was, deep down, a good person. Deep down I was a terrible person.
(blink)
In the bathroom. Blue paint peeling off graffiti coated walls. Curling edges of posters turning yellow and stained and forgotten. Mirror. Me. My hands, drunk, numb, push at my hair, trying to see it from more than one angle but it flashes in and out of focus. I realize all I want is to feel the tickle of fringe over my face, on my cheeks, for comfort, for protection, its dark cape concealing my real identity. I shake my fingers through my hair so it falls over my eyes, the strands greasy and dirty, unwashed. I barely see my reflection but note pale blotchy skin and shadows where there hadn’t been before. I feel like a skeleton with fabric stretched over its joints. My hand smoothes down my shirt and I clutch at ribs, then at a hipbone, and I feel my face contort with tears saturated with vodka and rum and sugar-free options. One hand’s on the edge of the sink as the Atlantic slurps down the drain. What’s happened to me?
(blink)
In a stall. Vile upturned. Powder spilling over porcelain. Shaking hands can’t make lines. I envision a paintbrush against a canvas, squirrel-hair bristles fanning over white blankness . Cadmium red. Ultramarine blue. “The worst blue in existence” Julian echoes. And green. Which green is that? Ver-? Verde-?
(blink)
Hold one nostril shut and suck up snow, hearing bells jingling on horses’ harnesses and marshmallows expanding and melting in hot chocolate. The taste spreads over my tongue as my face goes numb and my eyes roll shut. Shit. Head rolls back. Wipe my nose. Keep wiping. Eyes open. Keep them open. Air rushes back into the room like an exhale. I’m breathing again.
(blink)
Back at the bar. Grimy non-wood under my hands. Bright lights from the dance floor, warming, cooling, caressing my skin. I can taste the air. I can ingest it safely. The sounds move through me in a way that leaves no distinction between me and my surroundings. I feel like nothing, weightless. Like something made of bamboo and rice paper, like aluminum on pegs of graphite, like feathers held together by bubblegum. I no longer am.
(blink)
I’m a butterfly. You’re not supposed to touch me. You’ll ruin me if you do. Touch me and I fall apart. I’ve fallen apart. Because you touched me.
(blink)
Phone against my ear. Answer. Answer. Answer. Each ring is another brush of my nose, blood in the back of my throat.
“Hello?”
“Ju.”
Pause. Why’s he paused? “Noel.”
“Don’t hang up,” I say, paranoid, wanting to throw my arms around him, wanting to weigh him down with cinder blocks, call in the rain so none of his planes leave on time.
“Noel . . . ” he says, tiredly, distant.
“Just-” my tongue is thick and clumsy in my mouth, eyes falling shut as teeth find a numb lip and bit down, “Just say my name,” I want his name to wrap around me, drape over my shoulders like a blanket.
“Where are you?” he asks, and I pull his syllables tighter around me, warm under my chin, against my skin. Shoes scrape against wet pavement, palm against rough brick as I fold my knees and sink slowly down onto the concrete.
“I miss you.” I say and it’s to the shadows. They’re listening.
“Do you really,” he replies. I can’t tell if it’s a question or not. My mind, fuzzy and jostled and disorientated like melted gelatin and tries, god I’m trying, to understand, “S’an interesting theory,” he continues, voice like static.
“It’s true,” I say, or am I yelling, or did I say it at all, I swear he’s already gone, his shoes scraping on gravel far down the lane, away from me, “Ju just come on, come back.”
“I’m here Noel,” he calls over his shoulder as a wind picks up, arms flopping against his sides as he sighs and, in a tired way that makes his words sink to the ground in a heap barely a few meters from his mouth, says, “I’m right here.”
I’m on the lane too, branches stretching out and up over my head, sky smudged like charcoal dirt from a heel across blue sky. Grass fields to either side, breeze through my hair. He’s standing further down the road. I can see him. “Right here,” I echo, eyes shut, cold brick under my cheek as on the lane I take a step toward him.
“Call Dee,” he says.
“No,” I say, stepping closer but only seeing him move further away, “I only want you.”
I keep walking but he never gets any closer. I stumble and feel dampness against my face. Blood? Or is it vomit. My stomach has heaved but I don’t remember . . .
“Noel,” Ju says and I can’t hear him, “You there?” he pauses and I wish that the shadows over my skin were his arms, his arms wrapped around me, around my waist, around my shoulders, warm, strong, but they weren’t, it was the darkness of the alley, close to my skin, because I’m too late, “Noel?” he’s saying, “Come on, answer me?”
The words echo. And I can’t-can’t answer. Hair on my face, No air. Can’t understand why I’m not getting air. Maybe . . . maybe I need help or something, maybe I’m-sputter-I try and say his name.
“Noel! Where are you? Damnit!”
Can’t-he’s talking but I can’t hear anymore. I can’t hear him.
Maybe he’s calling an ambulance, I’ll be-