chameleon soul, you become everything you think. a girl with purple hair and painted lips white as a flake and just as unreliable. i think of how many times you (& him and her and him and her etc) must have fallen in love with……..i could do it, too. magic in the breaths she takes (i’m sure), she turns everything into fairydust, and then, just dust (like everything).
listen, i’ve tried.
there are oceans and rivers and ponds and seas and puddles but nothing could take you further from me. worlds and planets and moons and stars, we could never be more galaxies away. i want to be someplace (and time) where i blink and you’ve already lived a thousand years. i’ll miss you forever and forget you in a second. fifth and sixth and ninth and tenth dimensions could never be enough. i’ll ache for you forever and wonder who you are.
it feels freeing to confront things. i looked at our photos until there was no will to look away, like eyes pried open, like necessary torture. behavior modification. i looked at us, and your eyes, until i felt nothing and i was able to look on forever. on a lovers’ holiday i edged too close to an edge and resisted existence, was held back by someone who probably thought i would jump. i would “jump.” imagine that. everything seems so melodramatic when you recite it or remember. i felt defeated against something i was not fighting for and laid my head on his chest and said i would rather not be here, or anywhere, that my earthly body was a cage and i couldn’t breathe, that all i wanted was to breathe, to have air and feel it in and out of my lungs to feel it pumping into blood cells and through my ventricles and veins. no. all i wanted was to read, quietly, alone. with some romantic hot drink like coffee, or whiskey, neat, but closer to cold. i was there with stains of painted black roses still on my fingers and i just thought of your face and name over and over and over and forced it, like my eyes to our pictures, forced it there to stay.
i know when i’m on balconies and fire escapes looking out onto new snow-covered yards and concrete sidewalks, i know that i’m not so far gone as i imagine myself to be. i light a cigarette, inhale, and feel sick and dizzy but it’s all on purpose. i could live sharper, be sharper, see molecules of edges in the air, but i feel too comfortable in my discomfort.
no, i know when i am laughing sometimes and finding something beautiful, even alone, that i am fine with life and can go on. but then it hits like a memory contained in scent or repugnance, it hits on an after-midnight train ride home, it hits when the sun comes up through blinds and i am still awake, it hits when i’m drinking champagne on a roof or in a garden - there is nothing. nothing for me.
i want to keep my eyes closed or rip my hair out for the moon but i don’t want to memorize the monotony, to make money, for makeshift morals, for mentions in someone’s conversation.
no, i don’t want to move. and so sometimes i sleep for days and wake up sore and sick and wander through the days until i am upright. sometimes my mouth is so dry from refusing my voice, sometimes i am dense and empty all at once.