I sleep on the couch now, though I think it’s giving me bad dreams. The last time I slept in my bed, I dreamed gentle hands wrapped a bandage around my ankle, reluctant sweet hands who loved me so. I do not remember who it was, I could not see their face, but I would venture they were very close, their hesitant touch on my skin, as though they knew I was paper, a page turned over and over until even the weight of a gaze could break my spine, ruining me forever. Softer hands then any I remember, perhaps I’ll meet them soon.
I sit now in a cafe, I think the liquor is out of my system, but I woke up still drunk so who’s to say I would even know when I was cured of poison? Truthfully, I think I’ve been full of it my whole life. Sitting on it, ingesting it, becoming it. I worry those who kiss me don’t make it, though I suppose now that is a very selfish thought. It gives me far too much credit, for I find perhaps, after kissing another, I feel I live through a slow death. I fall in love with all of them, you know. A part of myself given away in an exchange of saliva. Not the prettiest image, but an honest one. Everyone who caresses me, in every gentle touch, I am painting our life together. In the short time they show me love, I am bending my past, my present, my fragile spine, all so I can tell myself there is purpose in what the body seeks. So I can tell myself they are looking at me like a forest. In every movement, a new ray of sun through the leaves. In every panting breath, a gust of wind that shakes even the century old cypress. In every kiss, the scent of fog, welcoming me home.
Perhaps it is even a desire. Those who know me, touch me, threaten to love me, they shall go, and I shall be known by none again. I do not wish for pain however, I hope it is quick, not for their sake. For mine alone.
I cannot stop myself from writing about the windows in this cafe. I can imagine myself telling someone about them, such passion in my voice. I found the perfect cafe, I say. The wifi doesn’t work, but God, you would love it.
I tell them about how the windows let in the perfect amount of light. How it feels exactly like a tavern in Game of Thrones. How I should have picked better clothing so I could really get into the vibe of the place, but I sit here, sunburnt skin sticking to the wooden chairs. I am thinking about everything all at once and so there is no noise, because I tell myself there is none. I am not thinking of the worry, of the pain in my throat. I am not thinking of you half a world away, I am not thinking of the people who have touched me and left. I am not thinking about who I am or whose body this is. I am not thinking about my parents and how far away they are from me. I am not thinking about the overwhelming love I have for this life and how it scares me to my very soul. I am not thinking about the souls desires, for I fear they would call to be free.
I am not thinking about the good I want to do, and how difficult it feels sometimes to do it.
I am thinking of my dreams. I am thinking about the scent of presume on my skin. I am thinking about the walk I took in the rain, how I narrated every moment to myself as if I was telling someone a story. I wonder what other stories I’ve told myself. I walk in the rain, the sun has kissed the earth goodnight, but her warmth lingers, as it does in summer, as it does though even the storms. I am walking in the storm’s fickle rain, stuck somewhere between thunderous rage, and the gentlest sob as her soul drenches the front of my gray tank top, once loose, now sticking to the newly exposed ribs in my chest. I am holding an umbrella, but barely. It rests in my hands, a prop. I want people to see me with it, wet and smiling. I want them to know I want to be here, in this rage. I am not running from a storm. I want to be cleansed, I parade my wet skin down the street so they can see my rebirth. So they can see how far I’d go to be an angel again.