Tuesday, April 3, 2012

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.”

Monday, January 9, 2012

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 fatherthe assholegood-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

Sunday, December 18, 2011

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.

Monday, August 22, 2011

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.