i need to tell someone. something. make it permanent and real somehow. none of it feels real. just some crazy dream. i can’t find the satisfaction i want because so far, no matter how many intricate sentences i craft, i never really say anything of substance.
running as hard and fast as legs will take you morphs from exhilarating to exhausting- i can’t seem to catch a breath. i speak in generals instead of specifics because my monster has no name. it’s blurry shapes & shades of grey, and when it screams at me i think of charlie brown & wonder if he dreampt of the sound of his teacher’s voice or merely never bothered to listen. i wish i could ask if there were an easier way of making all words form ‘woh woh woh woh woh’.
this city is haunted by ghosts. is that why it feels so damn good to scream like i’m telling every inch of the land that makes all the small towns grown close enough to appear as something bigger that i know it’s been fucking with my heart & my head since the day i arrived, and i feel every scar but i don’t bother to care because i’m still standing?
each fresh face brings possibility of satisfying the insatiable ache for comprehension. i don’t see bone structure or organ expression atop it, i see souls. not intentionally. often not consciously. peripheral vision is a fascinating thing. when our feet rest side by side, i catch glimpses of your blood flowing. swaying & sloshing & pumping for all you deem important. the splash of color held in your sight is all i need for a subscription to the lies. before the first issue finds my mailbox, stop. don’t shift in inches no matter how few, don’t you dare utter a word. i want you paralyzed while i’m swimming through your eyes in a dive deep enough to make a story. when i’ve finished, take my hand & stare straight ahead: we will test my truth & act accordingly. don’t mind if i favor my details over yours, i merely reserve the right to enjoy my desires even if fueled by blinders. if i can’t see your body next to mine, i can’t see your brain commanding your blood to make your heart beat in its own rhythm. the sound is oh so faint- just enough to pass as faster or slower than reality.
i told him i sometimes wondered if these mismatched genes are all i am. if all my good sprouted from such evil. he made a list of my parts he loves. it’s such a tragedy i’ll never make a list of his. if i tried i might start off spelling ‘D… a…’, and then there’d be no going back. no pretending i don’t know why i find such comfort in listening to that fast paced, shallow breathing. no denying mortality. i won’t try to fathom out-living them all, but optimism won’t cure the cold sweats i’m engulfed in after waking from dreams of telephone calls from unknown numbers late into the night- the kind i know i shouldn’t answer but always do anyway.
forget minutes & hours as if you were never there. conversations lacking even a hint of memory led by blurry faces. that sensation is love. and hate. an instant rush of bliss like a robust exhale after realizing you’ve been holding your breath. it feels like nothing else on the entire earth could cause such euphoria without hard work.
i miss you. and you, and you, and you.
i wish you could tell me you miss me, too.
it hurts everywhere, everything.
whisper softly in my ear,
tell me what it’s like -
flying.
we talked of my three musketeers.
“i remember when it was just the four of us” he said.
i remembered sitting in a hospital hallway eating extra pepperoni pizza and passing around dirty jokes.
we spoke of how three became two- of the pills we suspected forgot to wake him up. such a shame he forgot invincible is only for real super heroes, no matter how often you wear a cape and pretend to fly. almost convinced himself he could make something born broken work as normal. try it a million and two ways, the result will never change. anything that tastes like escape from the chemicals and machines is only make believe.
twice a day. every day.
until you die.
(and be grateful you made it that long)
all that stupid light does is flicker. day and night. just a simple yellow street light, glass caked with a thick layer of long dead insects, always flickering. i find in the daylight i often forget its existence and joyfully gather the blinds keeping me from sun. standing, wallowing in the beauty, my eye is always caught by a flash. and i remember that fucking light. turn from the window, look anywhere else. tink. tink. tink. move, find something to keep busy. feet move onto kitchen tile, two steps through the doorway-stop. three steps backwards, right hand sliding up the wall… click. light. three steps forward and search. cabinet, wall, dishwasher, sink. sink with exactly one dirty plate. don’t think, just do. water on, soap in hand, but missing something. tink. tink. tink. flashes of a bulb- it echos thud. thud. thud. it found a way inside my home. its in and i can no longer close the blinds and cover my eyes to force it out. i’m motionless, face up on the cold white tile. tink. tink. tink. eyes closed but still filled with that dirty yellow color, the brighter blinks of light syncing with the beating of my heart. tink. tink. tink.
i can’t feel anything but the flicker.
it was only the second real conversation we’ve ever had. the first was the night we talked about love. last night we finally talked of death. of his death, of mine. of our friends’. of my first love. i asked him if it scared him-the idea of breathing with lungs that weren’t his. he said he might wonder why he got them. i knew he spoke of origin but i could only focus on destination. i thought of luck, not dedication. i thought of why the tattooed boy was judged undeserving of a dead man’s organs.
i couldn’t help but mention the note-the barely legible, drugged out ramblings of a dying boy that his mother now displayed on the refrigerator like a picture drawn in crayon or an impressive report card. amidst the scribblings about ice chips and pills, there was a quick note on love. i barely glanced at the paper, hoping the kind thing to do was allow the sorrow without remembering it was mine too. i felt too numb, anyway.
but my eyes fell on her finger as it slid down the page to point at a single word written sideways, in red pen, at the end of the sheet. it read:
transplant?
somewhere in time my ears heard the blond woman say it was he wrote it two days before he left.
