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there's more fish in the sea. but who wants to go out with a fish?11.5.10this is what i saw:a girl that was clinging to the shadows stuck on the window frames, a girl whose eyes looked vintage in the way that bruised antiques do when forgotten in the attic; like photographed memories pushed to the back of the mind. her look was haunted, worn like old clothes that didn't fit quite right, but were the best she had. and once, she smiled; that didn't look quite right, either. (that smile looked like it was stretching her face too tight, threatening to pull loose all her seams.) her heart behaved like a little bird, twitching and flitting away when the storms came. and she never spoke. not once did she utter a word when the rain came tumbling across her skin. that silence was sparkly, something shining and tugging at her soul when the clouds kept hugging the sky, refusing to let go. a fluttering, from inside the walls and in her mind and between her fingers, itched at her bones. it was something restless and wild, brushing her cheek in the night when she was breathing, laughing in her head when she sat still for just a moment, just a second of remembering. morning would come in sinking, drowning in the dust and her cold bed sheets. too many times in the month of june it took her too long to get up: she just lay there, eyes opened wide, staring at the plastic stars on her ceiling. staring back to five years ago, seven years ago, eleven years ago. back, back, back to when her little lungs didn’t protest against her gasps for air and when everything didn’t swim in the light. when tears didn’t fly from her eyes like bugs filling the air with a stifling swarming sound. it was a noise that crept into everything; the carpets, the drawers, the shower. it wormed its way into her mouth, buzzing like the dial tone of a dropped call. and she didn’t speak, not in the mornings, not ever. a mug of coffee with someone else’s lipstick stain waits for her at the kitchen table. here is a girl that forgets. she forgets who used to live in this house, she forgets that she has bones and a body, she forgets that her spoon is swirling around in her cup. she forgets that the green chair is not her own, that a man once sat there chuckling and grinning at the elaborate stories and sunny tales she used to tell. she has frozen in time, swallowed up the present and spat it back into the toilet. children running down the street and she hears them giggling with their fathers, shrieking with their mothers. for five to two seconds she remembers wanting that, still wanting it. she remembers until her tears turn to sobs and she starts shaking her shoulder and knocking her knuckles against the table, tapping out a rhythm her heart no longer knows. - this is what i know: she doesn’t like looking out onto the street because the neighbours will see and they will ask questions, they will say things, and she does not want to be reminded. they will talk about him and her and them and she does not want to hear a thing, not the birds, not the cars, not the happy, happy people. she does not want any memories creeping back up her spine, tapping at her skull and saying, "here we are! haven't you missed us? haven't you hated sleeping without us?" and though she does not say it, they know and she knows. they know that this is the truth of it: she doesn't leave the house because she is waiting for someone to put their hand on the doorknob and twist, hear the creaking of the hinges and cry out, "i’m home!" and she rushes into his open arms. they know that this is the truth: her father and her mother and her brother were in a car on highway 69 when the storm hit and the parrot they bought for their sweet four year old son wouldn't stop screaming. everyone was screaming: the people in the car in front of them, the girl on the other end of the phone, the tires, the brakes, her mother, her father, her brother. they only stop when their minivan crunches against a tree and glass shatters, metal tears. at the ceremony, they say it was a tragic accident, but she doesn't remember this; she chooses not to. [she tries remembering how to smile and waits for her family to come home.] |
infinity&beyond
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