You. In Many Parts. 2

My post this week is a continuation of “You. In Many Parts”. I had fun writing this one, though the subject matter seems bleak. This piece is unfinished (as every writer says), but I think it perfectly sums up my feelings towards this “you” and thus, must be published!

2. When you look at me, you don’t really look at me. You look through me.

You don’t look through me like I’m a mirror or a window or a ghost or something helplessly poetic like that, but you look through me like I’m eyeglasses. Like you’re happy that I’m there so you can use me to see things more clearly.

And when I take my clothes off for you there’s surprise in your eyes. It’s like you’re seeing me for the first time, but really you’re not. You’ve seen me a million times before this, in a million different iterations before this, only just now you’re seeing my body.

And is this how it is? Do you really have to see my body to know that I have one? Just like you think you’d have to see my brain to know that I have that too?

I have existed before you for many years. Centuries, it seems, and in many universes. I am a constant for you. Always here and ready to make myself an extension to you. I’m your extra limb in this life. In another life perhaps I’m the chains on your tires. In the next, the spare blanket beneath your bed. And in your favorite life, maybe I’m your mother, loving you without conditions or expectations.

Don’t I exist for you? Don’t I exist in real space? Don’t I prove to you everyday that I deserve you? That I deserve your gaze? Your soul? Don’t I give you my mind every night and my skin every morning? Don’t you beg for it? It feels that way, at least.

Advertisement

“You.” In Many Parts. 1

A little different from my other pieces on here, I have a collection of saved works entitled “You” that I have written about many “you’s” in my life. I write these pieces in order to sort out my feelings about someone and better understand my emotions toward them. Often, what I think of someone initially, isn’t really who they are. And sometimes the subjects for these pieces aren’t really people at all, but only the image of the person with the personality I made up in my head. These pieces are mostly streams of my consciousness and make little to no sense without context, but they’re clarifying for me. They’re sort of like little letters that I would mail to the person or read to their face uninterrupted if it weren’t for my own cowardice. I figured that I would start publishing these here because maybe you all have similar feelings about similar people and maybe you can relish in that with me 🙂

1. I was surprised when it was you I saw at the door.
I mean, in a way, I have always been waiting for you.
Yes, I knew you would come and greet me. My friends had long told me that you existed and that you would be here to take me away or make me cry or something awful and terrific like that. You would take your hat and coat off and set them on the rack. And perhaps you would put your hands in your pockets and watch me from across the foyer.
And I imagined that I would be excited to see you. Or that I would feel, butterflies in the very least.
But what I felt, when you actually appeared, wasn’t that. It was the absence of breath and speech. It was air swirling between us without purpose or direction. It was empty.
You just weren’t what I expected.
Your hand was warm in my cold one, yes, but your eyes were all wrong. And your hair wasn’t done right. And you wore all the wrong clothes. All wrong. But you were there at my door, waiting for me. Yes, it was only me there for you. I was relieved to see you but not excited. Not the way I thought that I would be, don’t you see that?
And you! Relieved to see me too, but not surprised. The expression on your face was downright bored. You wore no hat but you adjusted the watch on your hand. Had you been waiting for the right moment to turn and leave? Had you preferred the abyss to me?
Can’t you see that I’m not what you expected either?
But there was hope in my chest for the future. Hope that time would be slow and that we would grow in, rather than up. Perhaps we still can.

Shooting star

If we were shooting stars we would be airplanes. We would look like we were almost about to touch each other in the sky, but in reality, we’d be thousands of miles away, not even knowing the other exists. And if we were shooting stars we wouldn’t be stars at all. We’d be clouds. Drifting slowly past one another and gazing back to wistfully watch each other fade into rain. If we were shooting stars we would be marbles. Tumbling and rolling past each other over concrete. We would bump and slide and escape the hands of all who attempted to reach us.  And if we were shooting stars we would be infinite. We would burn and fall and we would stay imprinted on the brains of all who watched us. We would never meet. We would know of the other but never of our destiny. Our fates. We would watch each other rip a seam in the sky, disrupt time and vision, and alter outer space and it would be perfect. And if we were shooting stars, you would be my wish.

Dairy Allergy

His name was Jack Johnson and he was a summer shade.

Well,

More like a summer breeze,

Really,

Cool like that.

He was a nice cool down in the summer

But not necessarily a nice guy.

Not a nice guy at all. I mean,

He wasn’t mean or angry or would punch you for looking at him twice

Or nothing like that but he might just

Tell you to stop laughing so loud

Or ask why you dress the way you do.

And I was in love with him, of course

Because I always fall in love with shadow men

Who keep parts of themselves hidden from me until the sun

Hits them just right

Because I’m really

Dumb

Like that. And he, Jack Johnson, was perfect for me.

He held my hand, not because he wanted to,

But because I wanted to

And he bought me dessert at American restaurants and

Always let me have the last bite.

And when we cuddled, his body curved around mine like a question mark

Though I was certainly no answer.

Jack Johnson had a mustache and a beard and legs like 

Redwoods and eyes like lychee.

Clouded and bright and wet.

“If you were a food you’d be some fancy French dessert that I couldn’t pronounce”

He told me once.

And you’d be milk, I thought.

And how I love cream.

When we spoke on the phone he sighed a lot.

Breathing out everything he couldn’t say and inhaling everything I could.

I confided in Jack Johnson

And drank him up in any form that I could consume.

When the barista asked for his name he’d say

“Jake, Jack, Joe, whatever’s easiest for you to write.”

How strange.

I like to think it was his way of saying he was barely a man at all.

Only half man

And half the dark side of a concrete building.

When we were close,

Really close,

He could only ever look into my eyes.

The warmth between our bodies wasn’t a fire, it was a gas oven

Left on long after we’d left the house.

“Say my name,” he’d whisper.

Tell it to me, I’d think.

He slept without blankets, he hated movies, and he took prescription drugs.

Jack Johnson made fun of me when I bought knick knacks.

He would always ask me what I

Would do with them.

He didn’t get the point of things that weren’t useful.

I joked that I wished he loved cute little things the way that I do and he responded

“Well I love you.”

And I smiled and cried

And sipped on his half truth like hot tea with extra cream.

Green

A single cherry tree

A hummingbird colored chartreuse and gold

Flying so close to my head I think it will land on me

Bare feet

Bright green beneath me sprouting between my toes

The hem of my dress swinging around my knees

Grass stains covering the silk fabric

I know they’ll never come out.

Remnants of

Honey lemon iced tea made by

My boyfriend coat the back of my throat

The smell of his old cologne sticking to me in places

I cannot reach with my eyes and the ghost of his touch is present.

I smile.

French Baguette Waltz on 2

There’s no feeling like you et me

Perhaps la douceur of me in your paume

Twirling like a dancer, free

A piece of your music box charm

You spread me on your french baguette

I’m melted and sweet and predictable

I make you taste better; ma saveur est prête

Together, nous sommes formidable

Loneliness is very sour

You and I have known it well

Why don’t we, at the top of this hour

Drink all our shoelaces and eggshells?

I would like to know your soul

Je n’aimerais pas être seul.

Kitty Kravings

I landed on the door handle swiftly and I heard the weak lock detach from the frame. As I glided back down to the hardwood I pressed my nose to the small crack in the door and pushed it open, taking care not to make a sound. I could smell glory two rooms over.

I had to sneak through the dining room, a space filled with humans that I needed to make sure wouldn’t spot me. Servant Emma would put me back in that putrid room if she found out I escaped. I crept behind a low table and glanced over at Servant Emma sitting on my couch. She was a lovely servant, bright eyes, gave perfect head scratches, and always added a spoonful of tuna to my dish on Fridays. She was chatting with Putrid Bernard. He refused to scratch under my chin no matter how often I rubbed against him, and the one time he did try to touch me, he reached for my belly! I clawed him of course, but the memory still haunts me. He would make for a terrible second servant, I thought.

I continued my stealth mission. The smell of glory grew richer, coating my nostrils and fueling my morale. One of Servant Emma’s humans let out a putrid laugh and threw her body backwards, almost stepping on me as I neared the kitchen. I kept quiet, shrunk behind the table, and waited for her to move. Then I was home free. I made it inside and the delectable scent of glory filled me. I needed it. First I sat on the checkered tiles and exhaled, reminding myself that I was a fierce warrior and protector of apartment H37 as well as Servant Emma. I could do anything. I shifted my weight on my front paws before making a perfect leap to the countertop.

There it was. Glory. A full plate of cooked salmon smothered in a rich, dark fish sauce, lightly peppered. Servant Emma had let me try a bite once before when she had humans over and ever since I had been craving another mouthful. I neared the steaming fish and got one lick before I heard her.

“Wallace!” She called out to me. Servant Emma quickly stormed into the kitchen. I mewed at her to leave me to my feast, but she scooped me into her arms faster than I could dig my claws into the salmon. She brought me back to the isolation room despite my loud protests and placed my food dish of plain Kitty Kravings in front of me before leaving and locking the door. I leaned forward and sniffed the kibble. Putrid.