069: dust

The dust from the sky and ceiling
clusters the glass, darkens the thoughts as they appear.
Everything is sun-streaked, water-tight, empty,
over-saturated.
Our lips may as well have bled.
I remember the forget-me-nots
pouring themselves over the dell,
how you laughed at me,
how you forgot about me.
I remember the way my face looked
in the glass after the dark forced me out
of our bed and into the doorway.
The bruise that formed invisibly,
the bruise I gave myself.
The kitchen, its sketched clutter suspended
underwater, the shadows like arms
keeping me out.

068: fleet

After my shower I was standing in the bathroom combing my hair and through the skylight I heard a motorcycle zooming up the side street, blaring music––but instead of something dark and thumping and horrific, it was, of all things, Fleet Foxes. Mykonos. A song I know, and love, and hum sometimes.

~

What kind of bird is it that perches atop a telephone pole, pauses, then nosedives into the sky below (for technically, the sky does not end when you get to the houses), disappearing from sight, thoughtless as I would be when walking from one room to another?

067: the secret beach

We found it, just like that. An overgrown, barred-off trail wound between tipping fence-slats and low dunes, past a stack of faded yellow-and-orange canoes, into a hushed cove. High houses on all sides, castles of the town’s wealthy and long-settled; us, smaller than sand-grains. We walked down the damp sand to the water, snaking among seaweeds and strewn mussels, crossed to a lip in the careening wall of rock that rounded the land’s edge. A nook in the rock, a wide chair, sun-warmed—we nestled there, dazed in the sun, dreaming of summer.

066: april

I feel empty today. Hollowed out, like a gourd with its insides scooped. Because anxiety took me over and left me feeling like a shedded skin, my living self gone elsewhere.

I left work and the streets were flowing with people, but once I got through the alley the world went quiet. The only sound the faint squeaking of wheels––a boy riding his bike in circles on the pavement. I went up the stairs, felt weary and hot. Came into my darkened living room, cast off my shoes, opened the lefthand glass door. Let the unforgiving air pour in.

065: yellow room

He brought me hot coffee as I awoke. Then he joined me under the covers and we sat there, nestled in the pillows, leaning back against that massive ornate headboard, and we sipped our coffee and ate our cranberry orange muffin and almond croissant (trying not to get crumbs in the sheets). The room was quiet, the house was quiet––the light was coming in, painting the room yellow, and as I lay there next to him with my sweets and my searing hot coffee, I said, “The next time I’m anxious, I’m going to think back to this moment.”

064: for the time being

Suddenly it’s overcast, but the air is soft and warm. I’ve opened the lefthand screen door. My room smells sweet and birthdayish, like it did when I was a kid––though that was a different room, in a different time––and while I feel less certain now who I am, in some ways I know I haven’t changed. I am still sensitive, stubborn, as malleable to the world as a handful of water in a chorus of waves. Still shy, afraid at night, longing always to be somewhere else and in some other time.

I stifle that feeling a lot. But with the slow, seeping spring, I feel it coming back. When the window is open, the sky soft grey, the air moving. When I am alone.

Note: This post is actually 127 words but it's fine because I don't care.

063: three strange old ladies in the café today

Lady who ordered mint green tea and was spotted rubbing the warm tea pot all over her face

Lady reading so intently that she did not hear or see me as I stood two inches away and said loudly, repeatedly, “Ma’am, I think I brought you the wrong tea. Ma’am? Ma’am???”

Lady who ordered three plates of food and ate steadily through them, with great care, picking apart her avocado toast like it was some craft, wearing spindly glasses, talking to no one, and when I started to take her empty plate away said “Oh no, you can leave that”

062: except nothing broke?!

I nearly broke an entire tray of water glasses and for the rest of the day I felt wragged. My nerves, frayed edges, watery and near to buckling. My wrists, the veins in them sogged with bleary gel. Everything was frayed on the edges, myself, the world, everything in it. The spaces between people, less defined, blurrier, far more dangerous.

The memory of it will stay in my mind as long as I must carry water glasses across a room. The fear, as stupid as it is, penetrative and crystalline. This particular anxiety cut into my bones, yet another specimen.