Acute

Sometimes, she knows which nights will be the bad ones.

Her skin itches. Like tiny things are running up her bones, she imagines she can feel their claws snicking and catching as they make their way. Shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, scratch-sliding down her hips, this is how she knows where this night will end.

She might reach for a cigarette, a textbook, her fingers might just open and close and open. Snatching, shaping the air's path, imagining molecules whistling all the way down when she abruptly drops her hands to her lap.

------

"When people say- you know when you're reading a book and it's the really sad scene, like the break up or death or something, and a girl- it's always a girl, ugh- has eyes that are 'swimming with tears'?"

"Mmhmm?"

"Yeah, right. So, it's a really dumb expression."

"Effective, though. It's supposed to trigger sympathy."

…"No, but- okay, I just always imagine, like, a pair of eyes that are just lost at sea. Bobbing around. And- that's not how crying works, obviously."

"Well, it's a hyperbole, it's not supposed to be taken literally."

…"But it's dumb."

"Mmhmm."

------

The word 'trigger' makes her curl her toes into the soles of her boots. In her experience, triggers cause explosions, and more than anything she is stopping herself from being blown away.

Sometimes, she does not know which nights will be the bad ones, and these are by far the worst ones. She is lifted off of her feet and slammed, without gritting her teeth or shutting her eyes, into her bathroom floor. She blinks fast at the ceiling, the porcelain tiles cooling her skin, waits for it to hurt.

------

"Oh, and another thing- when is rain ever 'cleansing'?"

"When you're dirty, probably."

"You know what I mean."

"I'm just teasing you, Chelle."

"When I'm in a bad mood and I'm caught in a thunderstorm- it's not cathartic or whatever, it's just really annoying."

"I actually really love thunderstorms."

"It's more likely to make you sick then it is to make you… face reality, I don't know, that's what the protagonist does, right?"

------

Once, she sat across from a middle-aged man on the subway, smiled politely at him when he nodded an acknowledgment. He gestured to her, painted lines up and down the expanse of his forearm with a pointer finger. Across, down, across, down, she watched curiously as he mouthed 'what happened?'

Strangers, in Chelle's experience, are unimaginative. She should wear a sign on her chest, telling all those who wonder to wonder, and not to ask. Explanations make things that happen in the dark real in the daytime, monsters sitting on her lap in full view of the crowded train, curling around her arms possessively, when usually they crawl into her bed as she waits for sleep to come.

So for the man, she shrugs noncommittally.

------

"Right."

…"Okay."

"You know-"

"Lena. I'm not a protagonist."

"I wasn't going to- I just worry about you, is all."

"Dooo youuuuu."

"You really should take this more seriously."

"Ugh, come on."

"Michelle."

------

For all the things that seem ridiculous in the day, an equal amount seem ridiculous at night. When it is starting, when she feels like there's no room in her skin to draw breath, the possibility of help is unfeasible. She already has a collection of mantras and affirmations and definitions to grasp at, things that occupy her hands, struggling to find their form of in her dim bedroom.

So when she tells Lena, it is not asking for help. It is to wave away explanations, in the same breath as a suggestion for lunch the next day, because it's sunny out and her white bathroom is far enough away that with a casual enough tone it could not possibly have ever happened in the first place.

------

"Come on, let's just drop it, okay? I don't want to have this conversation again."

"I'm not saying that you do!"

"Okay, so yeah, if it rains tomorrow-"

"But I am saying that-"

"Jesus Christ-"

"-you should feel like you're able to tell me anything."

"Oookay."

"Because you really can."

"I get it, Lena."

------

Lena wears too much makeup, and Chelle has thought so since the first day they met. Her eyes, outlined in heavy black, constantly look too white and watery. When she's surprised, it registers double, panicky and contorted. This is not the face of authority, or guidance, or safety, it is a teenage girl's face. A girl with a nightlight to keep things at bay all through the night.

Chelle hates it.

------

"I really wish you would call me-"

"Leeeena, I thought this was our girl bonding day. Shopping! Yay!"

"I realize why you feel weird talking to me."

"Can we just keep walking?"

"Michelle, your father and I care very much about you."

"There's a sale at Steve Madden."

"I know- I know this happened before I ever met your family. I don't want to make this about me, I just wa- don't walk away from me, I'm trying to tell you I want to help."

"It's not something you can help- Lena, if you know it's not about you, just leave it."

"I can try. You can include me. Please."

------

Chelle has never wanted, or needed, a mother. She wants a mother figure even less. Stepmothers put stakes down in the ground of comfortable apartment lives and pour themselves in. They find the messy corners and sweep them out, beat the settled dust out of the rugs and put new creases in the clothes and ooze themselves in.

She feels Lena hovering, in the new smells in the bathroom and in the presence at her elbow and in the nervous energy that comes with resettling. The light at the end of the hallway stays on longer. There are more parent-help books in her father’s office.

------

…“I’m not not-including you.”

“I think you’re shutting me out. Maybe not on purpose, honey- Chelle, I mean.”

“You can call me- Lena, I don’t hate you.”

“That’s… good.”

“I just deal with my own stuff, okay?”

“How’s that working out?”

…

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Shit. Oh, God, I’m really sorry.”

“I’ve never heard you curse before, wow.”

“Fucking-A right you haven’t, I’m trying to be a good stepmom.”

------

Some nights, somehow, are good nights, when she watches Ferris Bueller with her dad and falls asleep on the couch, where things don’t hide behind the cushions. Lena tried to facilitate this, made Thursday family fun night for a few weeks. Chelle was bored and Lena ate so many of the brownies she made she got sick, and that was the end of that.

Sleeping, though, somehow came easier with the sounds of the parents’ last Monopoly round filtering through the door. Little things scampered away from the plastic houses and tinkling glasses, and Chelle’s fingers closed around her pillowcase and settled there.

------

“You’re a fine stepmom.”

“Thank you.”

needles

Christmas songs are okay after Thanksgiving,

but not trees

we make fun of the people who've already got one

shining in the window

I mean, I could understand lights

even the strobe action at the house on 100th

my sister loves that display

(the one with the deer that move,

the giant plastic snow globe thing)

but she still tsks at the evergreen upstairs

it'll be dead in two weeks

my mom thinks it's sweet, so my dad stops muttering

about ridiculous and November

my sister restarts her campaign for a real one

before all-nighters were commonplace

(when I had to take naps all day

to prepare for New Year's Eve)

my sister and I hid under our comforter and waited

for the pitter-patter of hooves

on the roof (two apartments above our heads, but

we were listening hard)

but the presents Santa brought us came after we fell asleep

stacked high on our dining room table

not like the songs say, but we didn't care

(because presents)

Mom always set out a little fake tree in the middle

usually not even green

Dad, who grew up too poor for a Douglas or Fraser

loved the homemade ornaments

(the kind seven year olds make in school,

with their faces in the middle)

my mom, who grew up in a house

with a big fir every year

(bought two or three weeks before, tops)

made lots of fruitcake and stayed quiet

we drive by a vendor, probably a boy scout troop

$65! $100! Emma talks about how Christmas cheer

is priceless

ABCs

you were lonesome

but babies don't know that word

they know how to cry until their parents come

you lay in your crib and you wailed

chubby fingers reaching in the dark, expecting Mama

but Mama was plugged in, tuned out

fingers to temples because your noise pierced

and Daddy was already gone, Mama

didn't teach you the word for him,

though sometimes her crying did 

you plugged in, tuned out

because she told you something was missing

but not that he had a name

your father, the asshole, good-for-nothing

she told you, we don't need him

but left a hole gaping in your chest

something you pawed at when telemarketers

asked for the man in the house

or on the third Sunday of every June

your mother doesn't believe in "Hallmark holidays" anyway

sentimentality was never her strong suit,

nor was teaching you baseball or getting home

before midnight every night because she 

stayed late, worked hard to support you

she told you, but you could smell the whiskey

Mama was working hard to form 

her words and not paw at 

her own gasping chest

pathos

at the end of each day,

we sit across from each other

and practice telling the truth.

"fuck. ask me again."

"concentrate."

"I'm trying."

they taught you what you couldn't say

before fingerpaints, shoelace tying

my mouth formed pretty stories on its own

“why were you crying?”

“no reason.

“shit.”

you punch lockers when you’re frustrated

I sing to myself

tell people it’s the lullaby my mother sang

“where’s your mother?”

“she died when I was-”

“liar.”

you only know the truth

because a thief thinks everyone steals

as hard as I’ve worked to have no tells

“what does your father do for a living?”

“he. is a…”

“why are you hesitating?”

I intercept teacher’s notes,

you hide bruises,

we’ve got so many games

“are you okay?”

“are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m fine.”

we slink home

congratulate ourselves

the progress made

bon appétit

it takes me a long time to answer,

because I take time to taste the words

at first they come burning up my throat,

like bile, like yesterday's food,

and crash against my teeth

do my eyes bulge,

with the effort it takes to keep them behind pressed lips?

I will hang on to them for another moment

rearrange them with my tongue

(just like tying cherry stems,

I taught you how to do that, once upon a time)

they'll clack against my teeth

until I open my mouth-

but I'll rethink the sentence

swallow it down hard

watch carefully for the word "unbelievable,"

you'll see how it takes effort to keep down

maybe I'll cough, shift in my chair, while

the word "waiting" settles itself in your mouth

you'll savor it, decide whether it's worth saying

while I dislodge "cruel" from my windpipe.

a bitter tasting word,

and I want to spit it out.

I wonder what you were craving

maybe I'll just go for something simple, bold-

"I hate you"

but no, I want this flavor to last

something that will distort the taste of food

hours later

so something spicier, maybe

"I fucking hate you"

(you taught me that word, once upon a time)

that'll work, right?

I bet you were expecting sugar,

accepting your apology with a smile

I can feel that taste,

sticky, sickly sweet, crawling up

no doubt that'd be a treat to you

but all the witticisms seem to spoil on my tongue

I taste salt

axis

pulling each other though the dark

hand on the curve of a hip,

the swell of a shoulder,

every which way as the sidewalk spins

I try to remember how to say ‘tectonic’

because it’s an earthquake,

us spilling out on the pavement

something about the shifting

in my stomach;

and my ankles rolling as I fall back,

because you shriek

don’t step on the cracks,

something about backs but I’m laughing

heaving and hard;

and the heaviness of my head,

pressed against your chest

aftershocks when your hands reach

needing balance and finding

my cheeks, breasts, elbow,

tickling, curious, and I smile

when they brush my lips,

and my world is crumbling down

you didn't need to tell me how good she tasted

her mouth was minty and fruity 

and kind of sweet 

all at the same time, yeah, I know

the secret's in her gum, you probably didn't see

she spat it out right before she turned to you,

looked up through her eyelashes,

(the most important part of seduction:

eyelash batting constantly

it is fucking key)

and you were done for-

yeah, I know, I knew before you did

that her eyes change green and grey

when she looks at you that way it's just

mesmerizing, right?

right- that's her good side, the one

with the beauty mark, (but not really,

it's just a mole. it's probably 

cancerous. whatever.) so she makes sure

that you're looking right at it, thinking

what an endearing flaw you have

all the better to eat you with,

my dear.

so you don't need to tell me

and you don't need to apologize

for enjoying it

breakfast

we joked with the doctor in the ER

about the Disney wallpaper and the stupid

soap operas, the only thing 

on at three in the 

morning

it didn't feel like morning,

like waking up

like waiting with my sister to see the sun rise

or like chocolate chip waffles, Lucky Charms

it felt like running on adrenaline and gross,

because I hadn't showered yet,

and realizing my sweater was on inside out because

we'd left so quickly, Dad had been so worried

I made a face when they pricked my finger

and at the charcoal drink

complained that it was nasty, 

chalky-sweet stuff, 

though it might be saving my life

(no one mentioned that last part;

or that I had no right to complain about taste

when I'd managed to swallow 20 Excedrin tablets

with no trouble

no one said, "well, at least you got here quickly;

some people need an IV of this stuff,

need their stomach pumped,

you're one of the ones we can fix easily

with just a drink to absorb all the bad

and a few years of therapy"

the nurses just laughed politely 

at how it turned my teeth black.

I smiled dark and gross at them.)

there are glances, and there are stares, and then there's what you and I do, which I guess is what you'd call glimpses. I don't see you, I see the color of your hair, the pens I hated and would never deign to borrow from you (no matter how much I needed one) and I see the sneakers that you wore the night I got too drunk and spent most of my night on your bathroom floor.

do all of these things belong exclusively to you? other people own red Converse, Sharpie pens, have that shade of blacker-than-black hair, and yet this particular collection of associations is all that I have of you. I have the particular way the bass of your voice thrums underneath everyone else's conversations, I've kept the scar on the back of your right hand, and somewhere very deep I've locked away your mint taste.

sometimes I wonder if you see me in blue eyes, bright orange backpacks, permanent marker tattoos. the burn on the collar of my favorite shirt, because it was dark and you went to light my cigarette and missed. I shrieked and you laughed but it was scary so I shoved you for being such a dickhead and-

I've put all that away too. the shirt in the back of my closet and the rest of the cigarettes I stole from you in the bottom of my trash can (until I can throw them away without my parents seeing) and most especially I have locked away the words we, us, together.

the type that calls the authorities when they wake up covered in someone else's blood, or the kind that doesn't? they type that still wakes up, with a start and begins to sob when this has happened again, for maybe the sixth time, or the one that picks themselves up and walks away, washing their hands of it.

argue that the second type is the smartest, the first type has their humanity.

but really, it's not like it's people they know. either type, it doesn't matter- maybe they're innocent people or children, but they're not family.

argue, not yet.