There is a hole inside of me
From front to back
Like a bullet wound
Maybe I was standing on the street one time
Alone
Minding my own business
And
Maybe someone drove by
In a “drive-by”
And shot me
Loaded the chamber
Finger on the trigger
Aimed
And shot
Me
Through and through
The bullet ripped open my front
Tore my skin, burnt, seared it
Smashed its way through me
Damaging everything in its path
Everything inside me
Exit
The back of me
I can’t see the marks but I know they’re there
I feel the blood dripping out
Fast
So I have this hole in me now
And I can’t fill it
Nothing can
Eventually I will bleed out
This is a given
It doesn’t even need to be said
Even if you don’t know it
I do.
....
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Three rounds
Vomit drips down the bricks on the outside of his building. He doubles over again, his stomach cramping violently, his face red and contorted in pain. It passes for a moment and he takes a breath, panting and exhausted from the effort of regurgitating what he's sure must be inner organs by now. Then it starts again and he lurches back to the window, this time producing a speckled mixture, pink at first then followed by much darker spots of red. Blood. His eyes widen at the sight of it, pupils dilating, whites showing more prominently, a horse that has just been startled. He knows what this means.
The bell rings and the crowd goes silent. The fighters adjust their gloves and eyeball each other from opposing corners of the ring. There is real hate in their stares. They’re getting ready to start.
He looks out his window at the city that is already awake, it has been awake for hours now, and inhales the mess of noise created by people and vehicles below. Although the din penetrated his room hours ago, it didn’t wake him. He never slept to begin with. Instead he spent the night bent over the toilet, the sink, arriving finally at the window sill for this morning's final showdown. It wasn’t the first night spent like this. If he tries, he can’t even remember a night that wasn’t like this one. But he knows all too well that it could be the last.
The prancing around the ring is over; it’s on for real now. Their muscles warm and stretched, they assume their positions. Round One: Fight!
The walls in his room are not painted but consist of exposed bricks jutting out from what was once white plaster. Sometimes when he isn’t seeing things clearly, which is often, he thinks it looks almost like art. So many different colours, a veritable kaleidoscope - blood both fresh red and old brown, dried shit smears, vomit stains and pieces of old photos, some still in colour and others so faded it’s hard to fathom how they’ve survived the horrors that have taken place in here.
There isn't much furniture: a mattress on the floor covered in stains he dare not look at, broken in sections where the wire edges of inner springs stick out, springs that scratch his legs during the rare moments when he does sleep. He doesn’t need to think about the bacteria growing in there; the glare of infection from the swelling around his scratched legs, the blood and festering pus is more than enough.
The bathroom has a sink and a tub, both black in colour now with spots of green where mould thrives. Not that it bothers him. He doesn’t use either really, he hasn’t been able to bathe for a long time now. There’s the obligatory chair and table set, plastic and metal of the cheapest sort. The table littered with meal containers full of rotting food he knows he never ate, containers that are now home for cockroaches and maggots, crawling in the filth that to them is a kingdom of untold treasure.
Bruises are showing now, one fighter has a split lip and the other a cut above his left eye. But they’re panting and blood thirsty, ready for more. The bell rings. Round Two: Fight!
It seems that he has spent years here, lurching about, vomiting and spending days semi-comatose on his broken bed. In his broken body. With his broken mind.
Sometimes he finds himself staring into the mirror for hours on end. Just standing there, leaning on the sink with his hands, his emaciated frame screaming at him from the mirror. The sunken eyes and hollow gaze, the colourless skin that speaks only of death. He can stare into his eyes for hours on end, until he is trapped inside them, not seeing anything anymore. He wonders whether his eyes ever had any colour beyond the endless black of his pupils.
He feels calm now, his insides have settled and the pains have subsided. As he looks around the room, seeing nothing and knowing everything, he wonders whether it is over or whether this is the proverbial calm before the storm.
If there is a storm coming, he knows it won’t be a matter of rain and wind. There will be no putting out buckets and pots out to catch the leaks from the roof. It will be the storm to end all storms. He has nothing left to give, finally. After another round he won’t be standing anymore.
The bruised and battered fighters pull themselves upright and wipe the blood dripping from their injuries. It is no secret who will win this fight. Round Three: Fight!
...
The bell rings and the crowd goes silent. The fighters adjust their gloves and eyeball each other from opposing corners of the ring. There is real hate in their stares. They’re getting ready to start.
He looks out his window at the city that is already awake, it has been awake for hours now, and inhales the mess of noise created by people and vehicles below. Although the din penetrated his room hours ago, it didn’t wake him. He never slept to begin with. Instead he spent the night bent over the toilet, the sink, arriving finally at the window sill for this morning's final showdown. It wasn’t the first night spent like this. If he tries, he can’t even remember a night that wasn’t like this one. But he knows all too well that it could be the last.
The prancing around the ring is over; it’s on for real now. Their muscles warm and stretched, they assume their positions. Round One: Fight!
The walls in his room are not painted but consist of exposed bricks jutting out from what was once white plaster. Sometimes when he isn’t seeing things clearly, which is often, he thinks it looks almost like art. So many different colours, a veritable kaleidoscope - blood both fresh red and old brown, dried shit smears, vomit stains and pieces of old photos, some still in colour and others so faded it’s hard to fathom how they’ve survived the horrors that have taken place in here.
There isn't much furniture: a mattress on the floor covered in stains he dare not look at, broken in sections where the wire edges of inner springs stick out, springs that scratch his legs during the rare moments when he does sleep. He doesn’t need to think about the bacteria growing in there; the glare of infection from the swelling around his scratched legs, the blood and festering pus is more than enough.
The bathroom has a sink and a tub, both black in colour now with spots of green where mould thrives. Not that it bothers him. He doesn’t use either really, he hasn’t been able to bathe for a long time now. There’s the obligatory chair and table set, plastic and metal of the cheapest sort. The table littered with meal containers full of rotting food he knows he never ate, containers that are now home for cockroaches and maggots, crawling in the filth that to them is a kingdom of untold treasure.
Bruises are showing now, one fighter has a split lip and the other a cut above his left eye. But they’re panting and blood thirsty, ready for more. The bell rings. Round Two: Fight!
It seems that he has spent years here, lurching about, vomiting and spending days semi-comatose on his broken bed. In his broken body. With his broken mind.
Sometimes he finds himself staring into the mirror for hours on end. Just standing there, leaning on the sink with his hands, his emaciated frame screaming at him from the mirror. The sunken eyes and hollow gaze, the colourless skin that speaks only of death. He can stare into his eyes for hours on end, until he is trapped inside them, not seeing anything anymore. He wonders whether his eyes ever had any colour beyond the endless black of his pupils.
He feels calm now, his insides have settled and the pains have subsided. As he looks around the room, seeing nothing and knowing everything, he wonders whether it is over or whether this is the proverbial calm before the storm.
If there is a storm coming, he knows it won’t be a matter of rain and wind. There will be no putting out buckets and pots out to catch the leaks from the roof. It will be the storm to end all storms. He has nothing left to give, finally. After another round he won’t be standing anymore.
The bruised and battered fighters pull themselves upright and wipe the blood dripping from their injuries. It is no secret who will win this fight. Round Three: Fight!
...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Inappropriate Eyes, Wandering Fingertips
Are thoughts like these wrong? Is it wrong to feel this way about you? To be honest, I don’t know how I feel about you, but I know how I look at you and I know what I think when I do.
And you have no idea, you don’t see me looking at you the way I do.
Is it wrong to look at you like that?
You don’t realise it, you sense nothing. Even when our eyes meet you have no idea. You don't suspect for an instant just how amazed I am by your skin alone – so smooth, pale and unblemished. Skin yet untouched by time and unmarked by the hurt of years, without the scars left behind from wounds of heartbreak or disappointment.
As I look at you I know instantly what your skin would feel like to touch. I know, even though I would never dare to...
I lie. I did dare. Once.
You slept; the dead weight of your arm lay across my side, the warmth of your body against mine. I could feel the slow beat of your heart ever so slightly against my back.
I watched you while you slept. You looked so beautiful. And I couldn’t help myself.
I knew I shouldn’t, more than that I knew that you wouldn’t know if I did because you were so fast asleep. Or so I hoped.
I reached out carefully and touched you, ran my fingers along your neck and down to your ribs, to the place I have always thought is the most achingly vulnerable part of the body, the curve of the waist, the space between the end of the ribs and the beginning of the hip bone. I can hardly stand to look at it, let alone run my fingers along it. But I did. And it was almost unbearable.
You didn’t notice, or if you did you pretended not to. Either way, I’m thankful. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it if you had woken or indicated you felt my touch. I would have been too vulnerable then, too exposed, my insides cut open and spread out for inspection. No, I wouldn’t have been able to ever look at you again if that had happened.
As I did this, watching you sleep, running my fingertips along your skin, I thought about how when you talk to me – always about nothing in particular – I am stunned by the tiny, tiny lines that appear on your face, like markings on a blank canvas. And then they disappear again, a mere hint of years to come. Seeing them makes me feel like I’ve suddenly burst out laughing in aloud in public, a loud squawk bursting out of me and then disappearing.
I’m not sure if it’s you exactly, I am certainly not ‘in love’ with you in any way. I’m beyond such thoughts, I’m too far down the road already to pass time with such naïve sentiments, or more accurately you could say I’m too jaded and cynical. I think it’s more of an infatuation...with these characteristics of yours that I am all too aware we do not share.
Then a small tight hand of fear grabs my heart and squeezes it. Sharply and quickly like an ant bite – what if I’m wrong? What if I actually do like you? What then? Would that be wrong? If I know that looking at you the way I do is wrong, then to actually like you...
But I don’t even know you. You are practically a stranger to me. No, not practically, literally. So even if my fear was true, then any affection for you would be based on my own little idea of you and my collection of assumptions I have linked together in my mind.
And yet.
The moment, which did not actually exist beyond the twirling of my own thoughts, fled from my grasp.
And I had been right. I really had known all along – what it would feel like to touch your skin. It hurt my fingertips. And I loved it.
I stopped.
I got up and walked away, and I didn’t look back.
Even if I had stayed a little longer, even if you had looked at me and reciprocated my childish sentiments, eventually reality would have conspired, schemed and plotted to destroy everything. It always does.
So I walked away and I didn’t look back. And I’ll keep walking away, over and over again, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
...
And you have no idea, you don’t see me looking at you the way I do.
Is it wrong to look at you like that?
You don’t realise it, you sense nothing. Even when our eyes meet you have no idea. You don't suspect for an instant just how amazed I am by your skin alone – so smooth, pale and unblemished. Skin yet untouched by time and unmarked by the hurt of years, without the scars left behind from wounds of heartbreak or disappointment.
As I look at you I know instantly what your skin would feel like to touch. I know, even though I would never dare to...
I lie. I did dare. Once.
You slept; the dead weight of your arm lay across my side, the warmth of your body against mine. I could feel the slow beat of your heart ever so slightly against my back.
I watched you while you slept. You looked so beautiful. And I couldn’t help myself.
I knew I shouldn’t, more than that I knew that you wouldn’t know if I did because you were so fast asleep. Or so I hoped.
I reached out carefully and touched you, ran my fingers along your neck and down to your ribs, to the place I have always thought is the most achingly vulnerable part of the body, the curve of the waist, the space between the end of the ribs and the beginning of the hip bone. I can hardly stand to look at it, let alone run my fingers along it. But I did. And it was almost unbearable.
You didn’t notice, or if you did you pretended not to. Either way, I’m thankful. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it if you had woken or indicated you felt my touch. I would have been too vulnerable then, too exposed, my insides cut open and spread out for inspection. No, I wouldn’t have been able to ever look at you again if that had happened.
As I did this, watching you sleep, running my fingertips along your skin, I thought about how when you talk to me – always about nothing in particular – I am stunned by the tiny, tiny lines that appear on your face, like markings on a blank canvas. And then they disappear again, a mere hint of years to come. Seeing them makes me feel like I’ve suddenly burst out laughing in aloud in public, a loud squawk bursting out of me and then disappearing.
I’m not sure if it’s you exactly, I am certainly not ‘in love’ with you in any way. I’m beyond such thoughts, I’m too far down the road already to pass time with such naïve sentiments, or more accurately you could say I’m too jaded and cynical. I think it’s more of an infatuation...with these characteristics of yours that I am all too aware we do not share.
Then a small tight hand of fear grabs my heart and squeezes it. Sharply and quickly like an ant bite – what if I’m wrong? What if I actually do like you? What then? Would that be wrong? If I know that looking at you the way I do is wrong, then to actually like you...
But I don’t even know you. You are practically a stranger to me. No, not practically, literally. So even if my fear was true, then any affection for you would be based on my own little idea of you and my collection of assumptions I have linked together in my mind.
And yet.
The moment, which did not actually exist beyond the twirling of my own thoughts, fled from my grasp.
And I had been right. I really had known all along – what it would feel like to touch your skin. It hurt my fingertips. And I loved it.
I stopped.
I got up and walked away, and I didn’t look back.
Even if I had stayed a little longer, even if you had looked at me and reciprocated my childish sentiments, eventually reality would have conspired, schemed and plotted to destroy everything. It always does.
So I walked away and I didn’t look back. And I’ll keep walking away, over and over again, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
...
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Sickened
Even though it’s early, the sun is shining recklessly in the freezing winter air, teasingly hinting at a spring that’s still so far away. Everything looks hard and fresh, the concrete a mean grey, the grass a little too green with morning dew.
I know I’m getting closer to the city now because the number of people joining me grows with each step, all of us bustling along in the same direction, like worker bees filing back to the hive, marching together but completely alone.
The buildings are like closed, silent faces towering above, blocking out the sun, the windows huge staring eyes watching us enter the streets and alleys that divide them.
I'm in the thick of it now.
The sun doesn’t shine here anymore.
All backs straight, faces grim, stares focussed ahead.
Little by little the noise around me begins to change. I continue to make my way, pretending not to notice, thinking maybe there's something wrong with my hearing, maybe I'm just a little tired. The sounds thicken and dull, as though I’ve put earplugs in without realising it. I look from side to side to make sure there isn’t a squirrel on each of my shoulders stuffing cotton wool into my ears. Nope, didn’t think so.
I keep walking. The music from clothing stores fades away. People’s voices subside until they are no more. The beeping of cashier’s registers wanes, each beep shrinking until it sounds like a cartoon mouse in the corner squeaking at me from far away...and then all noise is gone.
Nothing.
No sound.
Not one peep from anything or anyone. I stop and look around. A few other people slow and for a second I think it has happened to them too, that perhaps a huge vacuum cleaner was just switched on at the city’s edge that has slowly sucked all the sound from the air. But they continue walking, after throwing me an odd look, and I realise I am the only one with this apparent hearing difficulty.
A noise begins to reach my ears. I start walking again and slowly but surely it gets louder. I’m trying to pinpoint the sound but it seems to be all around me, with no one definite source.
Then I start to feel ill, really ill. My stomach clenches and my throat seizes tight. I realise it is the sound – no, sounds for I notice now that there is more than one – that are making me sick. I look around and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the sound is coming from. They make it together. All of them. Alone it most likely wouldn’t be so horrifying, but united they march and prance and stampede all around me, beside me and past me. The din is incredible.
It is the sound of men in their suits that sickens me, as they swish past me in these city streets, in a hurry to get somewhere, desperate to exude importance. The flapping of their jackets between their arms and sides, like the wings of birds taking flight, the whooshing of their pants as the material crushes between their thighs, the slapping and clacking of their heeled, shiny polished shoes that announce their arrival behind me and are just loud enough to ensure I don’t fail to notice the magnitude of their significance as they pass me.
There is a grotesqueness to these sounds that makes me feel more than a little ill. It breeds queasiness in my stomach and leaves me feeling so faint, so lightheaded.
Moving in packs or even alone, they present a front; a grey, black and blue front. Like a lingering bruise on the face of a woman passing you on the street, faded in colour so you know it no longer hurts, but impossible for you to forget once you have seen it.
I make my way through their midst. We do not make physical contact and do not look each other in the eye. And yet even as I move among them in my isolated bubble, their sounds pollute the air around me, piercing holes in my bubble, allowing their smells of hair product and cologne and leather to flood in, making it harder and harder for me to breathe.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is no one else aware of what is going on? Am I the only one?
The sounds made by these men, the whooshing and swishing and clacking makes me want to regurgitate my breakfast, to heave and churn it out onto the pavement, to hear the chunks of chewed up toast and mouthfuls of coffee splat and splash on the floor.
The urge to do this becomes so strong I feel the bile rise in my throat. My eyes begin to tear. But I know it would make no difference. There would be no united façade of disgust at my rebellion against acceptable behaviour; at my vomit that would embody a personal assault on their cleanliness and tidiness, on the sterility of their existence. They would merely continue on their way, perhaps deigning to break their masks of über-worth for a few seconds to wrinkle their faces in repulsion, before very quickly resuming their previous cold-eyed expressions.
If I can just get inside a small space, I think, somewhere small and enclosed where I can lock myself in until they are all indoors, I will survive this. I begin to search madly for a place, any place, that I could escape to.
It only takes a few seconds before I spot it – what looks like a tiny door, the size of a child – and I know this is the place that will save me. I rush over to it, bumping and jostling people on the way, mumbling apologies but not getting any response.
I reach the door and find it is covered in black velvet, so plush, so new and clean-looking. What is a door like this doing on a main city street, I wonder. I have no idea. I have even less of an idea as to what could be beyond it.
As the bile rises in my throat I realise I don’t care and I push it open. It is dark inside, but I can see the inside is also lined in velvet, red this time. I climb in and close the door behind me. The sounds disappear instantly.
Total silence.
Well no, not total silence, there is the sound of velvet but if you know what velvet sounds like you will know also that it is a sound of softness and comfort, like the sighing and snoring of a kitten as it sleeps.
The door has led me into a small room, a space bigger than the door itself, which is a relief as the door was a tight fit, me not being child-size and all, but aside from one large cushion and the velvet lining, there is nothing else I can describe.
It is silent. Not one sound penetrates the room’s interior. I lie down against the cushion, in this red velvet room. I begin to breathe more deeply and the feelings of sickness dissipate. And so I calm myself, and I try to pretend the swishing and whooshing and clacking didn’t make part of me want to die.
...
I know I’m getting closer to the city now because the number of people joining me grows with each step, all of us bustling along in the same direction, like worker bees filing back to the hive, marching together but completely alone.
The buildings are like closed, silent faces towering above, blocking out the sun, the windows huge staring eyes watching us enter the streets and alleys that divide them.
I'm in the thick of it now.
The sun doesn’t shine here anymore.
All backs straight, faces grim, stares focussed ahead.
Little by little the noise around me begins to change. I continue to make my way, pretending not to notice, thinking maybe there's something wrong with my hearing, maybe I'm just a little tired. The sounds thicken and dull, as though I’ve put earplugs in without realising it. I look from side to side to make sure there isn’t a squirrel on each of my shoulders stuffing cotton wool into my ears. Nope, didn’t think so.
I keep walking. The music from clothing stores fades away. People’s voices subside until they are no more. The beeping of cashier’s registers wanes, each beep shrinking until it sounds like a cartoon mouse in the corner squeaking at me from far away...and then all noise is gone.
Nothing.
No sound.
Not one peep from anything or anyone. I stop and look around. A few other people slow and for a second I think it has happened to them too, that perhaps a huge vacuum cleaner was just switched on at the city’s edge that has slowly sucked all the sound from the air. But they continue walking, after throwing me an odd look, and I realise I am the only one with this apparent hearing difficulty.
A noise begins to reach my ears. I start walking again and slowly but surely it gets louder. I’m trying to pinpoint the sound but it seems to be all around me, with no one definite source.
Then I start to feel ill, really ill. My stomach clenches and my throat seizes tight. I realise it is the sound – no, sounds for I notice now that there is more than one – that are making me sick. I look around and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the sound is coming from. They make it together. All of them. Alone it most likely wouldn’t be so horrifying, but united they march and prance and stampede all around me, beside me and past me. The din is incredible.
It is the sound of men in their suits that sickens me, as they swish past me in these city streets, in a hurry to get somewhere, desperate to exude importance. The flapping of their jackets between their arms and sides, like the wings of birds taking flight, the whooshing of their pants as the material crushes between their thighs, the slapping and clacking of their heeled, shiny polished shoes that announce their arrival behind me and are just loud enough to ensure I don’t fail to notice the magnitude of their significance as they pass me.
There is a grotesqueness to these sounds that makes me feel more than a little ill. It breeds queasiness in my stomach and leaves me feeling so faint, so lightheaded.
Moving in packs or even alone, they present a front; a grey, black and blue front. Like a lingering bruise on the face of a woman passing you on the street, faded in colour so you know it no longer hurts, but impossible for you to forget once you have seen it.
I make my way through their midst. We do not make physical contact and do not look each other in the eye. And yet even as I move among them in my isolated bubble, their sounds pollute the air around me, piercing holes in my bubble, allowing their smells of hair product and cologne and leather to flood in, making it harder and harder for me to breathe.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is no one else aware of what is going on? Am I the only one?
The sounds made by these men, the whooshing and swishing and clacking makes me want to regurgitate my breakfast, to heave and churn it out onto the pavement, to hear the chunks of chewed up toast and mouthfuls of coffee splat and splash on the floor.
The urge to do this becomes so strong I feel the bile rise in my throat. My eyes begin to tear. But I know it would make no difference. There would be no united façade of disgust at my rebellion against acceptable behaviour; at my vomit that would embody a personal assault on their cleanliness and tidiness, on the sterility of their existence. They would merely continue on their way, perhaps deigning to break their masks of über-worth for a few seconds to wrinkle their faces in repulsion, before very quickly resuming their previous cold-eyed expressions.
If I can just get inside a small space, I think, somewhere small and enclosed where I can lock myself in until they are all indoors, I will survive this. I begin to search madly for a place, any place, that I could escape to.
It only takes a few seconds before I spot it – what looks like a tiny door, the size of a child – and I know this is the place that will save me. I rush over to it, bumping and jostling people on the way, mumbling apologies but not getting any response.
I reach the door and find it is covered in black velvet, so plush, so new and clean-looking. What is a door like this doing on a main city street, I wonder. I have no idea. I have even less of an idea as to what could be beyond it.
As the bile rises in my throat I realise I don’t care and I push it open. It is dark inside, but I can see the inside is also lined in velvet, red this time. I climb in and close the door behind me. The sounds disappear instantly.
Total silence.
Well no, not total silence, there is the sound of velvet but if you know what velvet sounds like you will know also that it is a sound of softness and comfort, like the sighing and snoring of a kitten as it sleeps.
The door has led me into a small room, a space bigger than the door itself, which is a relief as the door was a tight fit, me not being child-size and all, but aside from one large cushion and the velvet lining, there is nothing else I can describe.
It is silent. Not one sound penetrates the room’s interior. I lie down against the cushion, in this red velvet room. I begin to breathe more deeply and the feelings of sickness dissipate. And so I calm myself, and I try to pretend the swishing and whooshing and clacking didn’t make part of me want to die.
...
Friday, November 20, 2009
One single moment
There was a time I honestly thought I would shatter into a million little pieces. A moment so sudden and unexpected that I didn’t see it coming, like crossing train tracks and not checking for oncoming trains, looking up and seeing the lights in my eyes just before impact, realising far too late that oblivion is upon me.
It was late at night and we were in bed. Our breathing had slowed and the intensity of our heartbeats, so fast and hard just before, quietened bit by bit. You lay behind me, my body folded into yours so perfectly, as though our two shapes were created with each other in mind.
After a while I know you thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I was only pretending. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop my mind running around thinking about you. The curve of muscle between your neck and shoulder, the line your collar bones made that I loved to trace with my fingers, the way your skin always had a hint of tan despite it being winter and the insane softness of it – softer than a man’s skin should be, making me insecure about my own.
I don’t know why I pretended to sleep. It was as though I believed that if you thought I was asleep things would be different between us. It’s something I would do often, lie in bed and go through the motions of pretending to fall asleep next to you. I know you thought I was sleeping. It isn’t just that I’m an expert sleep-faker, it’s that I know you would never have done what you did, had you known I was awake.
We lay there entwined and you moved slightly, lifting yourself up a little. I didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound at first and I wondered what you were doing. I realised then that I could feel your eyes on me. You were watching me sleep. My breath caught in my throat and I had to focus on continuing to breathe deeply. Lightly your fingers touched my shoulder, ran up and down the side of my throat. So lightly I almost didn’t feel it at first. You stroked my skin so gently I was terrified you would feel how fast my heart was beating, thumping against the side of my neck. I was so frightened that you would feel it and stop touching me.
But you didn’t. You leaned forward and whispered “I think you’re gorgeous” and I could feel the words as well as hear them, they made little shapes in the air and collided with back of my neck, each one tingling more than the last, landing on my skin and resting there, slowly burning into the surface, leaving warmth behind like day old sunburn. Then you kissed me on the back of my neck and shoulder, so softly I thought I was dreaming and each kiss sent small shocks through my bloodstream, again and again and again.
I wanted to cry. I thought my heart would explode. I felt like at that point in time I wasn’t really there anymore, that I had shattered into a million pieces, like a mirror dropped from high in the air, tiny shards flickering and scattering the light, as though someone had opened a bottle of glitter and thrown it up into the air. I thought I would die right then. But I didn’t. You lay back down, kissed my neck one more time, and then I listened as you fell asleep. Your breathing became heavy and slow, your body twitching a little every now and then as you fell into deep sleep.
I lay there for a little while longer, calming myself, coming back into my own body and realising I was still there, in bed with you. The moment was gone, it became a memory so fast that it seemed as though it had never happened and I had dreamed the whole thing.
You never kissed me like that again. You never said words like that to me again. I have never felt like that since and I’m not sure if I ever will.
…
It was late at night and we were in bed. Our breathing had slowed and the intensity of our heartbeats, so fast and hard just before, quietened bit by bit. You lay behind me, my body folded into yours so perfectly, as though our two shapes were created with each other in mind.
After a while I know you thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I was only pretending. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop my mind running around thinking about you. The curve of muscle between your neck and shoulder, the line your collar bones made that I loved to trace with my fingers, the way your skin always had a hint of tan despite it being winter and the insane softness of it – softer than a man’s skin should be, making me insecure about my own.
I don’t know why I pretended to sleep. It was as though I believed that if you thought I was asleep things would be different between us. It’s something I would do often, lie in bed and go through the motions of pretending to fall asleep next to you. I know you thought I was sleeping. It isn’t just that I’m an expert sleep-faker, it’s that I know you would never have done what you did, had you known I was awake.
We lay there entwined and you moved slightly, lifting yourself up a little. I didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound at first and I wondered what you were doing. I realised then that I could feel your eyes on me. You were watching me sleep. My breath caught in my throat and I had to focus on continuing to breathe deeply. Lightly your fingers touched my shoulder, ran up and down the side of my throat. So lightly I almost didn’t feel it at first. You stroked my skin so gently I was terrified you would feel how fast my heart was beating, thumping against the side of my neck. I was so frightened that you would feel it and stop touching me.
But you didn’t. You leaned forward and whispered “I think you’re gorgeous” and I could feel the words as well as hear them, they made little shapes in the air and collided with back of my neck, each one tingling more than the last, landing on my skin and resting there, slowly burning into the surface, leaving warmth behind like day old sunburn. Then you kissed me on the back of my neck and shoulder, so softly I thought I was dreaming and each kiss sent small shocks through my bloodstream, again and again and again.
I wanted to cry. I thought my heart would explode. I felt like at that point in time I wasn’t really there anymore, that I had shattered into a million pieces, like a mirror dropped from high in the air, tiny shards flickering and scattering the light, as though someone had opened a bottle of glitter and thrown it up into the air. I thought I would die right then. But I didn’t. You lay back down, kissed my neck one more time, and then I listened as you fell asleep. Your breathing became heavy and slow, your body twitching a little every now and then as you fell into deep sleep.
I lay there for a little while longer, calming myself, coming back into my own body and realising I was still there, in bed with you. The moment was gone, it became a memory so fast that it seemed as though it had never happened and I had dreamed the whole thing.
You never kissed me like that again. You never said words like that to me again. I have never felt like that since and I’m not sure if I ever will.
…
Friday, October 30, 2009
Bathroom company
There were two green frogs, flat against the rotting wood of our bathroom wall. One with legs outstretched, the other with his folded underneath. Their bodies looked cold, damp and so small, quickly breathing, their slimy skins rising and falling in time to an inaudible beat.
Then there was a brown spider, long legged, big-fanged and furry. Its bulbous body rested on the wood, seeming deflated, depleted, unmoving. It was missing a leg.
The frogs disappeared. The spider went missing. No small damp bodies. No fur covered legs. The walls remained bare. It felt so wrong without them.
….
Then there was a brown spider, long legged, big-fanged and furry. Its bulbous body rested on the wood, seeming deflated, depleted, unmoving. It was missing a leg.
The frogs disappeared. The spider went missing. No small damp bodies. No fur covered legs. The walls remained bare. It felt so wrong without them.
….
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