And Then There Was This
I read this at an open mic nite, and I sort of feel that the response was underwhelming.
Guys. My heart.
Fuck. This humiliation creeping around my neck. Slip into the bathroom. Wait, lock the door behind me. Don't let anyone in. Don't feel much sorrow for any full-bladdered bastard who'll suffer on my account.
Stand in front of the mirror, and wipe off that bullshit expression that's been building all god damn day. Fucking smile that gets passed back and forth between strangers all day. Currency. Or, a very pretty gate.
Christ, the antibacterial spray in here is like aromatherapy. In that, the stench is strangling some brain cells and making me feel fucking high. Fuck it, breath in deep.
Check the stalls--empty. Breath slow, and separate this room from everything. A clean-reeking place all my own. Away from all of you assholes.
The mirror. Nah, that's not me in there. I think that every time I look in a mirror. No, no way that's fucking me hanging there. Mirrors. What god damn liars. Or, maybe it's just me.
Now. Damn it. Let out that long breath and unbutton my shirt. I was outside, and the dry stare of the sun melted my black shirt to my back. Girl in black. What a statement.
Statement: I don't watch the fucking weather channel. Or, I'm a sweaty idiot in a black shirt.
Peel it off, and I only have one skin again. Not much between me and them. Or, me and you. I feel surprise. My chest is closed.
Could have sworn I'd left it open. From the night before, with you. In class minutes ago, taking notes on nothing when suddenly--Did I close my chest last night?
Remembering now, of course, of course, I closed it.
"That's you on the inside?" You say it in my head in last night. A sudden flush, because this isn't what you were supposed to say when I opened it up for you. Not how you were supposed to look. Now how I was supposed to feel.
Jesus, don't you know anything?
"Well, yah." I looked down at the memories and thoughts and emotions seeping out of my rent torso. "That'd be my insides, alright."
"Hunh." All you had to say. Or, all you cared to say.
Closed myself back up again. You--fuck. Christ. Never really wanted to see inside me, did you? I really fucked this one good, didn't I? What a god damn silly fool.
Lean against the sink. Keep breathing, moron. And then asking myself, what were you thinking? That he'd reach in the fucking chaos and blood and pumping, moving, living things and yank out all the badness that's in there in you?
Feels like something died. Yah, that's it. Industrial strength cleaner died here, and this is the searing smell of it rotting. Last night, a memory died before it was made. You fucking murderer. The abortion of a beautiful moment.
Can't remember if he ever split himself open for me. Pretending to not care. Pull out a cigarette, yah, and just suck on the end. Lighting it, glance at the smoke detector, would be a bad thing. Just suck. Nothing comes in. Fucking alarm systems. Should kill myself any way I damn well please.
Mmm, pretending is the fun part. Anything to be another person.
"Well?" Hear the memory-echoes of me after, when I was closed up. A charged 'well', but a relaxed 'well'. A good 'well". Silence gnawed me. "Well," I said to him, "and don't say well what. You know what."
The clock's arms kept on moving while he let smoke out of his mouth. Gray curling up and emptying him out. Made me think of burning his insides. Or, of making his lips smolder. Or, of him giving a shit.
"It's a real mess, isn't it?" he said.
If you cry, I'll fucking kill you, I tell myself. I just want to push everything out of my eyeballs until there isn't anything else. Someone slam a syringe full of Novocain through my breastbone, please. Someone take a blender to my brain, please. I let a fool hurt me. I left it open for someone to kill me, so please, rip everything out, good and bad. Christ.
Fuck. Breath in nothing but dead cleaner.
Turn away from your face on the wall, and go into a stall. Lock it. Senselessly, for no reason at all. Just another wall. We all love walls. Or, made of walls. Walking walls.
Reach the fingertips up under the ribcage, and wiggle up between and crack the sternum. Christ, listen to the echo. Sharp sounds stabbing every wall. The dirty sounds. The hurting sounds. This process. Hurting and dirty. Ripping skin and parting muscle and shifting bone. Shit.
Totally open now. Locked up in my sterile room.
Ask him, Do you have any insides? Why don't you tell me, what you've got to show for a pretty life? Is your chest half as full of oddities as mine? Should I keep on guessing or will you just fucking tell me already? Christ, and if I did see that gushing squishing within him will I want to look or know? Nod my head. Say, "Yes, yes I do." Want him in every sense. Or, need him. Even when I really fucking don't.
Lean against the door. Cold. Metal. Smooth. Fingers prying me open. Tearing myself hurts, yah, but Christ, I'm so good at it. Don't spill, even a little. My blood won't fuck up the shiny bathroom floor. My mess won't ruin a thing. Brace myself. Really, brace myself. Christ. Christ.
If he'd listened real close, intent on me, he would've heard the hands of the clock choking me last night. Heard me breathless until he yawned and ended it all. After I was all closed back up, his eyes were closed and his skinny arms wrapped me up. He was a room, a dirty room that smelled like sweat and sex and home. I let quiet and time catch me and take me down. Fuck, I was so filthy, and I was so full, and I was so happy. Or, so numb.
If he was here now, listening real close, he would hear me wrap my fingers around the sopping memory of last night. Fingers work their way through the stringy network of thoughts and feelings all attached to last night. Gentle tug makes me scream out. Christ, just fucking yank it. Pull it, hard and fast before I really realize--before I really know what this means. Fool myself. Think, I want it gone. Think it loud. Fast. Make nothing else can breath. Rip him the fuck out.
Wishing now that I could do this same to him. Rip out me from him. Or, hurt him. Christ, if only I could be that strong.
Fuck him. Too god damn much inside. Too much of fucking him on the inside. Plastered on the inside of my ribcage. Christ, thousands of pictures of him, and his ordinary beauty.
Hands, all sticky and red but holding the memory. Breath, catch up, don't panic. Even, now. Every breath I try to regulate turns against me. Hits me in my open, oozing chest. God damn it. Breath. Breath. Breath.
And for God's sake, don't fucking cry. Or, let him see you like this.
Pull it back together now. Shove tears to the back of my brain. Think of the cell corpses floating facedown in tears. Think of you crying. Think of dying, death. Or, loneliness. Push the ribcage back. Smashed back in place. Creaked and shoved and mangled back to normal. Ribcage barring in everything I ever lived.
This memory fading in my dirty hands. So close to my heart. Could the memory have seeped into it? Shit.
Breath in. And, do. not. cry.
Hell, my fault, anyway. All my fault. Or, too stupid in love to blame him. Fuck.
Yah, days. Months. All inside. All waiting. Bad dangerous wires to be ripped out. One at a time, they'll come out. Covered in blood. Everywhere, I'll leave dirty images of you on clean bathroom floors. Covered in tears. Nighttime, I'll tear out my ideas of you and trash the filthy damn things. Shit. So much pain is coming soon. Think, rain clouds lined with bright white burning. Rending flesh, fuck. Birthing scars, damn it. Blossoming blood and dirty fingers, god damn it.
Look in the mirror now. Wash your hands. Everything goes away. Under the water, soap, and then rinse, and then repeat. Towel. Hunh, would you look at that. My hands are still stained. Well, fuck it. Got better things to do than clean up a mess.
No more thoughts now. Shh. Quiet. Shh. Wrap up the memory in a towel. Toss it out. Quiet, and empty, and clean. Not mad, anymore. Or, sad, anymore. Or, happy, anymore, or confused, anymore, or human anymore.
Only an ache. A little ache from smashing skin back in place. Over the hole. Between the breasts. The hollow part, red around. Sore, yah. Where the memory was. Sore, from the place where I'm missing him.
Walk towards the door. Back to the world. Lighter, for the lack of a memory. Back to where the air doesn't burn my nostrils. To where everything isn't seared clean. Back there, thinking the thing everyone should know. Or, does know. Thing that everyone will learn.
Opening up fucking hurts.
enjoy.
Guys. My heart.
Fuck. This humiliation creeping around my neck. Slip into the bathroom. Wait, lock the door behind me. Don't let anyone in. Don't feel much sorrow for any full-bladdered bastard who'll suffer on my account.
Stand in front of the mirror, and wipe off that bullshit expression that's been building all god damn day. Fucking smile that gets passed back and forth between strangers all day. Currency. Or, a very pretty gate.
Christ, the antibacterial spray in here is like aromatherapy. In that, the stench is strangling some brain cells and making me feel fucking high. Fuck it, breath in deep.
Check the stalls--empty. Breath slow, and separate this room from everything. A clean-reeking place all my own. Away from all of you assholes.
The mirror. Nah, that's not me in there. I think that every time I look in a mirror. No, no way that's fucking me hanging there. Mirrors. What god damn liars. Or, maybe it's just me.
Now. Damn it. Let out that long breath and unbutton my shirt. I was outside, and the dry stare of the sun melted my black shirt to my back. Girl in black. What a statement.
Statement: I don't watch the fucking weather channel. Or, I'm a sweaty idiot in a black shirt.
Peel it off, and I only have one skin again. Not much between me and them. Or, me and you. I feel surprise. My chest is closed.
Could have sworn I'd left it open. From the night before, with you. In class minutes ago, taking notes on nothing when suddenly--Did I close my chest last night?
Remembering now, of course, of course, I closed it.
"That's you on the inside?" You say it in my head in last night. A sudden flush, because this isn't what you were supposed to say when I opened it up for you. Not how you were supposed to look. Now how I was supposed to feel.
Jesus, don't you know anything?
"Well, yah." I looked down at the memories and thoughts and emotions seeping out of my rent torso. "That'd be my insides, alright."
"Hunh." All you had to say. Or, all you cared to say.
Closed myself back up again. You--fuck. Christ. Never really wanted to see inside me, did you? I really fucked this one good, didn't I? What a god damn silly fool.
Lean against the sink. Keep breathing, moron. And then asking myself, what were you thinking? That he'd reach in the fucking chaos and blood and pumping, moving, living things and yank out all the badness that's in there in you?
Feels like something died. Yah, that's it. Industrial strength cleaner died here, and this is the searing smell of it rotting. Last night, a memory died before it was made. You fucking murderer. The abortion of a beautiful moment.
Can't remember if he ever split himself open for me. Pretending to not care. Pull out a cigarette, yah, and just suck on the end. Lighting it, glance at the smoke detector, would be a bad thing. Just suck. Nothing comes in. Fucking alarm systems. Should kill myself any way I damn well please.
Mmm, pretending is the fun part. Anything to be another person.
"Well?" Hear the memory-echoes of me after, when I was closed up. A charged 'well', but a relaxed 'well'. A good 'well". Silence gnawed me. "Well," I said to him, "and don't say well what. You know what."
The clock's arms kept on moving while he let smoke out of his mouth. Gray curling up and emptying him out. Made me think of burning his insides. Or, of making his lips smolder. Or, of him giving a shit.
"It's a real mess, isn't it?" he said.
If you cry, I'll fucking kill you, I tell myself. I just want to push everything out of my eyeballs until there isn't anything else. Someone slam a syringe full of Novocain through my breastbone, please. Someone take a blender to my brain, please. I let a fool hurt me. I left it open for someone to kill me, so please, rip everything out, good and bad. Christ.
Fuck. Breath in nothing but dead cleaner.
Turn away from your face on the wall, and go into a stall. Lock it. Senselessly, for no reason at all. Just another wall. We all love walls. Or, made of walls. Walking walls.
Reach the fingertips up under the ribcage, and wiggle up between and crack the sternum. Christ, listen to the echo. Sharp sounds stabbing every wall. The dirty sounds. The hurting sounds. This process. Hurting and dirty. Ripping skin and parting muscle and shifting bone. Shit.
Totally open now. Locked up in my sterile room.
Ask him, Do you have any insides? Why don't you tell me, what you've got to show for a pretty life? Is your chest half as full of oddities as mine? Should I keep on guessing or will you just fucking tell me already? Christ, and if I did see that gushing squishing within him will I want to look or know? Nod my head. Say, "Yes, yes I do." Want him in every sense. Or, need him. Even when I really fucking don't.
Lean against the door. Cold. Metal. Smooth. Fingers prying me open. Tearing myself hurts, yah, but Christ, I'm so good at it. Don't spill, even a little. My blood won't fuck up the shiny bathroom floor. My mess won't ruin a thing. Brace myself. Really, brace myself. Christ. Christ.
If he'd listened real close, intent on me, he would've heard the hands of the clock choking me last night. Heard me breathless until he yawned and ended it all. After I was all closed back up, his eyes were closed and his skinny arms wrapped me up. He was a room, a dirty room that smelled like sweat and sex and home. I let quiet and time catch me and take me down. Fuck, I was so filthy, and I was so full, and I was so happy. Or, so numb.
If he was here now, listening real close, he would hear me wrap my fingers around the sopping memory of last night. Fingers work their way through the stringy network of thoughts and feelings all attached to last night. Gentle tug makes me scream out. Christ, just fucking yank it. Pull it, hard and fast before I really realize--before I really know what this means. Fool myself. Think, I want it gone. Think it loud. Fast. Make nothing else can breath. Rip him the fuck out.
Wishing now that I could do this same to him. Rip out me from him. Or, hurt him. Christ, if only I could be that strong.
Fuck him. Too god damn much inside. Too much of fucking him on the inside. Plastered on the inside of my ribcage. Christ, thousands of pictures of him, and his ordinary beauty.
Hands, all sticky and red but holding the memory. Breath, catch up, don't panic. Even, now. Every breath I try to regulate turns against me. Hits me in my open, oozing chest. God damn it. Breath. Breath. Breath.
And for God's sake, don't fucking cry. Or, let him see you like this.
Pull it back together now. Shove tears to the back of my brain. Think of the cell corpses floating facedown in tears. Think of you crying. Think of dying, death. Or, loneliness. Push the ribcage back. Smashed back in place. Creaked and shoved and mangled back to normal. Ribcage barring in everything I ever lived.
This memory fading in my dirty hands. So close to my heart. Could the memory have seeped into it? Shit.
Breath in. And, do. not. cry.
Hell, my fault, anyway. All my fault. Or, too stupid in love to blame him. Fuck.
Yah, days. Months. All inside. All waiting. Bad dangerous wires to be ripped out. One at a time, they'll come out. Covered in blood. Everywhere, I'll leave dirty images of you on clean bathroom floors. Covered in tears. Nighttime, I'll tear out my ideas of you and trash the filthy damn things. Shit. So much pain is coming soon. Think, rain clouds lined with bright white burning. Rending flesh, fuck. Birthing scars, damn it. Blossoming blood and dirty fingers, god damn it.
Look in the mirror now. Wash your hands. Everything goes away. Under the water, soap, and then rinse, and then repeat. Towel. Hunh, would you look at that. My hands are still stained. Well, fuck it. Got better things to do than clean up a mess.
No more thoughts now. Shh. Quiet. Shh. Wrap up the memory in a towel. Toss it out. Quiet, and empty, and clean. Not mad, anymore. Or, sad, anymore. Or, happy, anymore, or confused, anymore, or human anymore.
Only an ache. A little ache from smashing skin back in place. Over the hole. Between the breasts. The hollow part, red around. Sore, yah. Where the memory was. Sore, from the place where I'm missing him.
Walk towards the door. Back to the world. Lighter, for the lack of a memory. Back to where the air doesn't burn my nostrils. To where everything isn't seared clean. Back there, thinking the thing everyone should know. Or, does know. Thing that everyone will learn.
Opening up fucking hurts.
enjoy.