rot

i have these scars, beloved, and only some from blades. the ones that still hurt, that itch, come from the bad punches. skin split open over bone. when im angry, i think about my teeth. they feel longer. like they no longer fit.

when i play at fighting, something sharp simmers beneath the surface. i don't want to hurt anyone. i control myself.

he clenches his hands. you know he’s trying to quit (doesn’t like reliance, for himself, doesn’t want to give himself to anything anymore—but he does, he does, he does), but you also know he wishes things were duller. smoother. went down easier. he tries to think, when was the last time someone was gentle?

“they don’t notice,” and his voice is tight this time. “and either they never have, or now they just don’t care, or—” he sighs. “whatever. better alone than lonely. i’d rather it be a magic trick and i’m the one saying the words than—” horizon, again. he’s thinking about cinematography and scowls. “nevermind.”

protagonist. protagonish, maybe (although antagonish was a reference to the place of the haunting, wasn't it—was it? mearns, i feel i've forgotten. hughes, are you still there? still upon the stair?), but but but. i don't know. main figure, central, am i ? the protagonist here ? or simply the eyes, the ears, camera, rolling but not (never) acting. am i.

i don't remember the great gatsby anymore. how it ends. i just remember nick, listless. he's talking to jordan at a party and she says—something. like that there's nowhere more private than a room full of people who won't pay you any mind. they could say anything. nothing would change. nick could, in that moment, say anything. nothing changes. he's the point of view, and maybe he's protagonist, sometimes, but. but he's not gatsby. great gatsby. what was his name?

protagonist. protagonist. no. i don't think so. i spin and spin and spin, not effortless, always around someone else. the center of my life isn't my own struggle. it is not, i know, me vs. man, or nature, or g-d. (maybe, maybe, it's me vs. myself. i lose i lose i lose)

solitude. everyone wants a piece of this, of that, of time, of you. your boss sends an email on the weekend and your mother wants you to call and your cousin just had his second child and you're across the country. can't see the kid, who knows if you'll even get the chance to meet him, with how tangled the family feuds are getting, but your mother still wants you home for christmas. funny, it's not even your holiday anymore. she doesn't know what your holidays are.

food. money. rent. jobs. you're trying so hard, you're working two jobs but it's still not enough. you know you should get a third but what part-time places are hiring? you work with kids. can you get another job, a remote one? will that be enough to keep them safe? your students are back in school, in person, and they tell you about it. the attempts at protocol that don't work. the teachers who don't believe in them, surprised when they place into their AP courses, when they have higher aspirations than the state school an hour away. one of your students has a running tally, broken up by month, of the times she's cried this year. one of your students is so anxious she thinks she's responsible for taking care of every one of her friends. you don't know if there's anyone else looking out for them. you don't know if any of them are looking out for her, in turn. you can't do anything more to help them. you go to bed hungry. you nightmare about food scarcity. nothing much changes, does it?

at first, it was his kindness. he was a bit of an asshole – pedantic and overconfident and couldn't let himself be wrong – but he was also kind. generous. he could recognize danger and set himself to lessen it, for others. for me. he can be wrong, now, and so can i. i learned it from him.

then it was her. her smiles and how cold her hands were and the fact that i wanted to be able to carry her everywhere. i can, still, pick her up and spin her around. i miss dancing with her. but i learned to bring an extra jacket with me, reached for her so she wouldn't be too cold, i wanted my hands to be gentle for her.

there is a life for me, somewhere, with the mountains to the west instead of standing at their peaks, there's a life for me in buildings made of brick, no flat roof in sight. he waits for me, there, beyond the horizon yet i've been to the end of that road, i visited. i cling to the possibility of chasing that life.

but i will not leave this one. it might not be the last life i lead (there is an ending, in the distance, where she leaves and i don't know the troubles that wait there, i don't know if i can stay here, after that, with someone i love, maybe more than anyone else, if such a thing is quantifiable. i don't know if he'll want me to. i don't know how to afford it, if he will) but as painful as it is, it's worth more to me than running north.

how many lives do i have left? i don't know. enough, i hope, to love who i have now. enough, i hope, to someday go north without running, or to wait for him to fly south to me, to love him too. how many lives do i have left?

2. you'll save them but only by damning yourself, you know, but there's nothing else you can do. stay up too late, crumble within yourself, hide beneath the table—but only when they cannot see you fall, only when you can't hurt them with how heavy their burdens are. you're collapsing. it's worth it

3. you weep while looking at him. he's so beautiful it hurts and you shake when he touches you (you're falling apart) and you cannot tell him again so you don't. maybe he knows but probably not so there's no harm. except to you. it always hurts you.

4. i want to disappear to the bacchic woods. why is this my life but it's better than any alternative (isn't it)