words and things

Now - now I am being pelted with hail and rain and snow and wind and thunder and the eye passed long ago. The bath has gone cold and is dirty; needing to be drained and cleaned. The breath I release is sucked into your chest and there is no oxygen left in the room for me.

I used to know, as well as my shoe size my scars my birthmarks, what I wanted and who I was.

Now the center is missing - there is just space and dust. An imprint left from a missing relic, an ancient tome that held all the answers.

i sometimes wonder if the scars on my skin are thorns trembling along my legs and arms like a studded suit. i feel corrosive to the touch; wearing down burning away ruining i will always be a regret a scar; the ugly one you cover with long sleeves and hoodies bunched up over your hands.

i don’t know how to  stop the drip sheathe the sharp ends file them down to gentle bumps.

they kept me safe made the soft insides protected; but lonely left to fester like an infection.

I ache I ache in a way that’s as familiar as the scars that litter my thighs and arms and face and knees and eye and calves; the phantom pains of injuries that were done to me that I’ve done to myself. Are they why I feel untouchable like a wall with too many pin-marks and cracks over childhood drawings that bleed into the paint. Or is it something wrong inside; a disease a plague a cancer - spreading slowly everywhere is it mythic, like flowers that burst from my ribs and wind around my throat choking; heaving; blood vessels bursting. Can I be fixed; can I yank them out? can I stitch them closed? can I cover them up? The exhaustion leaks into my bones, I am so tired of feeling like a shirt that is your favorite for a while; but then stained and frayed too messy to be worn. I am tired of asking

am I too much? am I not enough?

There’s a $10.99 bottle of bourbon beneath my nightstand, half-empty. It’s not a smooth drink, sharp on the edges and bitter going down, but it soothes; it takes the parts of me that need to be silent and holds them under, hand on the back of a neck. It makes my limbs loose, soft in the corners; my tongue heavy and open - for once. It fills my lungs with stinging; it settles on my skin like a corrosive, letting the top of me simmer away. It sends shivering, indulgent waves rolling off my spine like the shore in summer and my head is left floating, gulping down salt water.

And sometimes, when I’m not being careful, when I don’t pick my distractions carefully and I’m left with the silence, mind glazed and wandering - not filtering thoughts with practiced finger tips - it reminds me of my father.

I think of the same bourbon sitting like a promise on the kitchen island, my mind already swimming with margaritas and shots I don’t remember the names of. I think of the bourbon sliding down my throat as my dad and I threw back shots; the same motion, the same alcohol soaked breath let out after. It had been the first time I’d looked my father directly in the eye for longer than a few moments in almost 10 years and the piercing blue felt like arrows to my chest, left quivering between my ribs.

I had put a hand on his arm, tears dangling on my lashes, and we talked like there hadn’t been years of acid eroding the floor beneath us. We talked so honestly, so openly, that when the conversation switched, when he held back, let the familiar lies tumble from his mouth, I could feel it settle between us like a weight. Heavy in my hands, on my shoulders, and I looked at him again, pushed past the bourbon still swimming between my temples and saw it. I saw the drooping eyes, the empty glass, the blown pupils, and I was reminded. Reminded of who he was, who he had become.

Reminded that he would never be able to talk to me sober; not like this - calm and truthful. That I didn’t remember what he was beneath the drugs and anger, hadn’t seen that part of him since I was barely 14. That no matter how honest he was in these moments, it was coaxed by bloated needles and shots of bourbon and that wasn’t honesty. It was a poor imitation, an actor with a script that wrote itself in the lines between my eyebrows, in the pink tint of his corneas.

I looked away from him, watched the sky staining light blue, a day encroaching like my mind was sobering - too quickly and too suddenly and too brightly. It was almost peaceful if the nausea in my stomach wasn’t rising with each chirp of a bird; and I knew it wasn’t from the alcohol, it wasn’t from the cheap dinner I’d had too many hours ago. It was from knowing I’d let him in, let him see parts of me that I had hidden, kept safe behind years of built walls and now it was open, bruised and bleeding. I was aware of how, with a sober mind I never would have stepped outside with him, never would have had a conversation like that. It felt like I’d been torn open, probed and coaxed into confession, left to sit in a pew and beg for forgiveness.

Cauterizing took time, took hopping over a border line with a car full of a life I’d hoped to live. It took coming home to nothing being different; to letting what felt like a hand settle back on my throat and squeeze because this was home and it was the only one I had. Home was waking up to yelling; loud and vicious, words like throwing knives - not aiming for a target but still hitting all the same. Home was dread spilling into a room when the phone rang, when a car pulled into the driveway. Home was hiding in plain sight, behind a deadpan face and silence; using a shut mouth - tongue bitten and bruised, scarred and thick - as a spiked shield, meant for hurting and protecting. Home was being cold and callous because the warmth had been drained out of me. Home was letting the numbness flow over and letting it ruin, letting it leave nothing behind for anyone to find and thinking that meant I was okay

And then suddenly everything was different. Suddenly the empty space at the dinner table had weight to it because it wasn’t going to be filled again. This time the call had come, the police in our driveway had arrived, and there was a before and after.

I’d never been so aware of how the world could shift, tilting on an axis I hadn’t realized had never faltered until then, just in the space of two words spilling into a room. How a blow you see coming, wait for, resign to, still hurts all the same; still leaves ripened bruises, hues of violets and blues, and split lips that aren’t meant to heal.

Wounds that sear when bourbon bubbles up onto them, but you let the pain feel cathartic because it’s better than thinking it’s for nothing.

flower petals stick to my skin staining;  purple hues bloom like wild violets and carnations over the expanse of my knuckles and the blushed rose that trickles between my fingers is dark and thick.

I am an open wound cauterizing itself with bee stings and I’m riddled with scars that leave shooting stars over my thighs and hips; like a nebula is expanding in the dip beneath my sternum.

I don’t know how to leave roses to unfurl to open up to sun beams; they stay closed under the starlight colored in darkness; tired and withering.

Waking had never been a graceful process for her, like being jolted back from the peak of death every morning. Maybe it was dramatics that made her feel that way, but every time she first opened her eyes after a night’s rest, she felt the strange sensation of resurrection that was painful and forced.

The fact that this awakening was from a drug-induced stupor made the process almost agonizing. She blinked, watching the light change constantly around her and she slowly took her situation back into mind; forcing her conscious thoughts to the surface. Physical sensations returned first; the ripening bruise on her cheek and jaw, the cracking scabs and dried blood on her lip and nose. Dried; it’s dried, time has passed. She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes fully, aware, very quickly, she was not alone in her confined space and was being watched; guarded. She remembered the sensation of a needle-prick, a tickle compared to the way her body sung with aches and stings and rips. She remembered the restraints being forced onto her wrists before the sensation of their bruises hit her present senses. Her memories came in shuttered stills, sifting through them with a practiced mind. Focus made them a bit clearer as her awakening grew fuller, the world around her becoming tangible once again.

The space around her lurched for a moment and she remembered suddenly she was moving. A car? Yes, but -. She remembered the cushions coming up to meet her face, blood smearing on black leather, a hand at her head. The needle-prick. And then the floor of the van. The bump they’d gone over immediately made her aware of her body. She was on her side, her knees bent and drawn up, arms tied behind her back. She pushed through the thickness of her thoughts, tried to focus again; zip ties, rope, or metal. If she was lucky, it’d be zip ties.

Cold, hard; hissing when they clicked shut on her skin. Cuffs. In some ways better than zip ties. With enough leverage, she’d broken out of them before; if desperation persisted it would just take a broken thumb - manageable.

She felt the next bump in the road coming before it happened and she used the movement to shift her body slightly, taking inventory of sensations. Sharp pain at her hip - cut. Aching in her ribs - bruised, badly. Ankle felt off, the pain especially pungent around her joint - rolled? Not broken, definitely nothing broken. Her shoulder hummed from being popped back into place and now pulled by her restraints; the ache was familiar, reminded her of smelly mats and punching bags.

Finally, she listened, took the rest of her senses into account. The dull sound of a radio arrived first, a pop song playing, quiet and muffled with static and - a wall? The smooth, distant glide of wheels pushing them over pavement, the joints of the van creaking every so often when the road’s imperfections jostled them.

Her eyelids lifted slightly, not enough to be noticed but enough that the tiniest sliver of her surroundings could be seen. A row of seating was in front of her, two seats, a few paces away, but most importantly she noticed the shoe firmly placed just in front of her stomach; like her body was curled around it. The other foot out of her view, from the angle, but the figure they lead from was not. The suit fit him well, dark and tailored, pressed recently. The jacket was open, the white shirt folding around his stomach in his lazy seating position, tie arching against the creases. The tie was crimson, a gold glint at the center from the clip holding it in place. His face was turned away from her, gaze focused out the front window beyond them, and she uses the advantage to open her eyes a bit more.

Arrogance; it’s a permeating sensation in the air around him, always. It makes her stomach twist. He looked posed, purposefully in a relaxed position while she’s left in a crumpled heap of blood and bruises in front of him. There wasn’t a scratch on him, his pale features smooth as marble. Of course he had put himself here, despite that he could be anywhere else. He sat there, leaning back against the van’s wall like he was getting a ride to a mundane appointment. Memories swim up in between the rational thoughts and she works to quiet them, keep them in her periphery.

She knows why he of all people is in the back of an empty van with her and the realization makes her eyes open. Shifting her weight so she’s half on her back, arms keeping her from rolling completely; her legs still pulled up on her side, unmoved. The movement makes a small noise but it’s enough for him to notice.

“Of course you’re the one here,” she said, her voice strange to her; raspy, distant.

“Good to see you’re finally awake, princess,” came the reply, the same silky, low voice. She was looking at the ceiling, not deigning a glance towards him. “I was afraid I’d have to endure this whole ride in silence. Or worse, try to make conversation with one of the brutes.” He was shifting position slightly, she could see out of the corner of her eye and she caught the most minuscule flinch when he leaned forward. No one else could have noticed it.

“How are your ribs?” She looked at him then, a slow turn of her head, letting the malice leak into her stare. His expression didn’t change, the grin still struck into his features in careful stillness. He leaned back a bit and slowly lifted his foot, pressing the sole of his dress shoe into her exposed side. The pressure increased until he coaxed a gasp from her lips, so quiet she almost let herself think he didn’t hear it. He kept the pressure just there, the pain swimming in her veins with dizzying potency. With practiced - mastered - restraint, she kept herself from shaking or wincing.

“Fine, and yours?” His voice was sing-song; layers hiding the challenge, the memories, the promises; tone like a flower decorated blade. She could see the stiffness when he moved and she reflected his grin; the same chiseled expression but with splatters of dried blood and purple hues accenting her cheeks and lips.

“Wonderful.” 

It was a game, one they found themselves constantly in a stalemate at the end of each round. It bored them both so when he took his foot off of her, crossing it over his opposite knee, she took the opportunity to sit up. Despite the pain and aching that singed her nerves with the movement, she wouldn’t show it. She turned until her shoulders were resting on the car seat, where his leg had just been. Her legs stretched out in front of her, relaxed, bent slightly, knees bumping together with the movement of the van. She didn’t have shoes on, her tight pants were filthy.

He brought his hand over her head and swiped the stray strands of loose curls away from her face. Some of them he had to pull, yanking from dried blood. She let him.

He ran his thumb down her cheek, over scabbed skin, curled his fingers under her jaw, palm pressing to the top of her throat. He was holding her face, skin denting to his fingertips, but he didn’t move her head, didn’t apply pressure. She let him.

He stroked slow circles into her jawline with his thumb, humming to himself as his hand slid lower, fingers wrapping around her neck with lazy speed; still no pressure. She let him.

She brought her knees up to her chest, positioning her feet apart, thighs tight together - leverage. His hand did not move but his thumb and fingertips closed ever so slightly, applying pressure. It was like a challenge, a reminder of what he could do; almost intimate. She let him.

They stayed like that for a while, him watching her head, her eyes on the opposite wall of the van, both of them swaying together when the van went over uneven spots. He eventually slid his fingertips off of her throat, brushing her jugular with a practiced gentleness. She heard his hand fall back onto his lap as she cast her glance sideways. She could see there was only a driver in the front seat, only a small, closed window between them. Maneuvers blossomed in her mind, accounting for variables, focusing to be ready for surprises. It would only take a moment.

The sickening snap echoed throughout the back of the van and he was ducking for her just as her feet found purchase with the floor and she leapt out of his reach. She slid her right hand out of the cuff easily, ignoring the new bolt of pain running up her arm, centering on her hand. She was upright in the van; stumbling, her small stature making it slightly more comfortable than for her guard, who stood opposite of her in a crouch.

“I knew we should have gone with zip ties,” he growled, lunging at her just in time for her to move, fingers grabbing the back of his suit as he passed her. She shifted her stance in the moment, putting weight on her good ankle and pulled him back, sending him sprawled onto the floor, torso vulnerable. He went to block the blow he saw her lining up for, but the wind was knocked out of him from the fall. Her bare heel slammed down against his ribs, right where she knew to go and he screamed. The van was slowing and she took the opportunity to force the back of it open. He rolled to his side, watching her as she jumped free, watched her roll on pavement, barely missing the only other car on the road. He watched her lay there for a moment, getting smaller in the distance, before she was off on foot, somehow, impossibly - limp barely slowing her. He watched her run off to flag a car down; watched her get away again.

He let her.

i saw the demons beneath your skin and traced their handprints skimmed fingers across their bite marks and kissed the wounds where they had clawed their way out.

i saw the angels in your hair woven through the thickest curls the knots the bobby pins and i prayed to them  like your body was a church and i was kneeling at the doors.

i felt how human you were in your smudged lipstick your bruises your scraped knees your ripped jeans;

and i was not a sinner nor a saint nor a member of the congregation.

you were there and then you weren’t and it feels like the dust is still settling and i’m choking on it.

there’s a hum in my chest that’s shivering down my spine every time i hear your name or see your face like an earthquake in my marrow shattering my bones;

and it’s waves it’s angry, cold sea foam crashing into a beach house and then a ripple  spreading across a rain puddle.

but who also brought warriors to their knees, weak left trembling lips with pleas rolling off them ran fingers across skulls and offal with bored eyes and made earthquakes roll over people’s skin.

i am anger; i am shaking knuckles and clenched teeth, the thorns hidden beneath flower petals, the fire behind Athena’s fist the crease left in bed sheets and between brows, the sweat squeezed out of an old t-shirt.

i am despair; i am the salt left beneath dulled eyes, the quiet way a laugh doesn’t sound like a laugh, the grip that shakes and fumbles, the snow falling on Demeter’s face, the tired pressure of a bottle to lips.

i am fear; i am the shadows that move underneath a pile of clothes, the tremble settling between fingertips, the depth of a scream long since quieted, the moment before Orpheus turned around, the resonating pinhead hitting the bathroom floor.

i am joy; i am the fullness at the end of a day, the gentle ache in cheeks, the warmth left on a pillow, the feeling of water drying beneath a warm sun, the wine swimming in Dionysus’ head.

i am love; i am lost between skipped heart beats, the red string tangled between toes and fingers, the heat of a familiar face at the right time, the moans of Aphrodite in Ares’ bed, the small chime of a baby’s laugh.

i am passion; i am feverish nights with charcoal dusted cheeks, the inkblot on a fresh piece of paper, the tears as an actor takes a bow, the fire that burns in Hephaestus’ forge, the swelling of a rib cage.

i am the gods; i am human; i am me.

i leave hand prints on people’s skin little impressions on their arms and stomach and cheek bones when i want to leave moles; new freckles you never quite realized weren’t there. 

i leave whispers hanging in the air fantasies and imaginings i am always left an idea, never fully formed when i want to be the memory so vivid; you can taste me on your lips some nights when you’re drinking whisky or watching movies i want to be the one who makes you ache when i float among your dreams - leave you dizzy when you wake.

i leave you hungry, thirsty, just enough to want it never enough to beg for it when i want to be the meal after a week of starvation; i want to be craved like a nymph dancing on the back of a wave that breaks on the shore and dissapates i want, i want, i want

I want to be a pillar; the sternum in your chest yet i’m just  the grime caked under your fingernails.