She woke up in the shrinking room, aware of the grime soaking through her, like the suns itchy seeder. Her clothes were turned inside out, and on one foot was a skinny sock pinned with spurs. And on the other foot, bare and climbing, were long brown stains like stretch marks. She was curled up beneath the walls dripping fantasies, and rose to the ceiling like vertigo. Her body had been out with dead, and now was trying to follow in its fathom deep footsteps. Every morsel of her numbed pieces splayed and excruciating, gravitated towards reflections. The only person she knew was now just a memory to be stepped on by time, and she felt like she had been run over with a streaming line of trucks that would not stop rolling around inside of her. The ambiance was jilted for her new home, that held nothing but remorse and frantic pains. She was stumbling for rejection that would meet her beige and yellow eyes, a tragic paperweight landing on the white-brown sand swirled countertop, looking up for the first time. She had black and blues in all shapes swimming like disease under her skin, she was smeared in ruddy formations from nose to ankles, now dried and shedding their stains. Her shirt was torn at the shoulders like some gargoyle had perched atop her once small figure, and now everything was too big to hold down. Lifting her shirt there were bruises standing out like violets bursting from the inside of night. She was stiff from the top of her skull to the tips of her toes.
This room had been shaken into disaster. Her bedroom was now just a junk yard with ripped apart art, and seething resentment for the complete seclusion that lay ahead of her, like signs on the open roads of pitch dark nights. This room had been claustrophobic, but now it was barely the size of a mouse hole. Her books were bare to the middle, their organs gutted and tacked upon the white walls. The whole area smelled of bad breath and rust. Powder blue pills were crushed into the darker blue carpet like sugar because she had decided she did not want to sleep. The day after her fathers funeral, a doctor prescribed her this medicine to help her sleep, but after a day she turned that bottle upside down, and let it rain the remains onto the rug, while she slid her shoes across its crunching candies. Flashbacks were striking her at odd moments, flaring up like lightning that enters the grounds taut wisdom, but comes back up backwards all wrinkled like an accordion.
It had been at least seven days. She didn’t know what time its was, but she knew in her bones it had been a week. A week since he had left her for a hole in the ground, holding his gods like fine pearls, and waiting for heavens that were out of print. She hoped just for his sake, that there was a place to be invited into after death. She had come to the conclusion in her adolescence that it was all an illusion to help us feel safe, something to give us chills and call us into the light. A Santa Clause, an Easter bunny, a fairy tale ride. She knew how much he believed, and hoped now that he was right, and that he was with the ones he loved all of his life. It had been a week of ripping apart poems, and putting them back together wrong. A line of Plath sinking into the jagged edges of Rumi, a paragraph of Parker’s witty flavors dangling inside of Ginsberg’s howling reveries, and her own browning reds slashed across their secrets, in memoriam of her loosening life.
She had grown up unaware of the cruelty of loves. She had been a child so long, it was too late to move up into the business of adulthood. She was a strange thing, that never stepped outside of her own creations. A recluse never takes mortal flight. In school she had been silent, going along like a scheduled train waiting for her stop so she could get off, and sit alone without the noise of insults and staring. She was an average looking girl with mousy brown curls, pink pale skin, and overweight. She had never been out on a date because no one had ever asked her, and she knew better than to subject herself to liking someone to the point of asking them out, and then being laughed at. She would get up, go to school, come home and do her homework, sometimes with the help of her dad, especially in history. He was so smart when it came to the history of the world. He hadn’t graduated high school, but he was intelligent, and had more common sense than she ever would. He could have been anything he wanted to be if he had had the chance. She would watch television to escape the trappings of daily routine, usually cartoons to lighten her mood, and then at night an old movie, something with Bette Davis or Katherine Hepburn. She would mimic the lines in the movies, and move like the actors on the screen.
Her heart seemed to be multiplying like those tacks spearing the walls. The security she had was now corroding, and no longer lulling her to sleep. Her eyes were galloping and dropping so quickly she couldn’t bite into any dreams longer than the sharp broken edge of a snails casing. Her head held up a rounding planet, with the tiniest of strings that would split if spoken to in more than shadows. Pandemonium had found this girl pounding into the walls, and throwing fragile items like tornados into the triangles deepening in every corner. She was the Frankenstein mob, all in one body, chasing her own tail. She was the monster beating on the metal frames of society, and swelling up like the moons last cry.
However long her life would be, she would always come back to him. He read to her as a child, of green eggs and ham, and tucked her in at night with a hug and a sigh so soothing it could have been a story in itself. He would stand outside drenched in light, and play catch until the day started fading, and then go inside to relax. Later on, in the evenings swarthy suit, they would sit together listening to riders on the storm, and prepare a simple dinner. At night when the eyes of god were dimming, a majestic black and white film would pass through their family room, while they sat on wide gray couches stuffed with too much cotton, and snack on the lives of fictitious dreamers.
She could still see his olive complexion stepping through the houses rectangular spaces, with his dark brown hair pushed back like a lake spilling over. She kept jumping with a wild heart sinking, like some corpse of a fish, every time she thought she saw his short, portly body appear. She would add up the features she had of his, and was saddened when she realized there weren’t many. She had his hair and his eyes, but the rest were from a mother she never knew. He had told her about Kathleen, an out of control girl he was going to marry. She died a few months after she was born in a bar of alcohol poisoning. She could feel herself being held in her mothers arms as a baby, she felt the warmth, but it was a fantasy with a very small opening. He had left her aftershe was born because she didn’t want any part of being an adult. She went out every night, drank and came back to pass out in a bed without him. She wondered what it was that made her mother fall so blindly into death, was it something that changed her somewhere within her childhood, or just some blank call to let go? Her father would work during the day, and come home to his childhood room, watching over his new baby girl Madeline, and sleep lightly in the yellow and blue striped chair waiting with patience and love for the new day.
And now, the true loneliness would come in, and step all over her face. And she had the prescience bobbing back and forth in her all this time. She had never been in love, but at least she had loved and been loved, that is more than others had, and so she kept that as her sort of good luck charm. She had known for a long while that marriage, children, and friends would never be. She had decided, or, rather was forced in a way- to stop going forward. Most of the time, it felt as if she was holding her breath and everything outside was moving away, just like in school when she would turn the knob on her locker, and see the slow motion surrounding her pass like blurring dreams. Her body would blanch out until ghosts eyes popped up from their soundless roots like closing seas, and she would watch. Watch as the world spun by on its affluent knees, effortless with its tail whipping her as it receded. She was the watcher, she watched from that first point in the day until that last pockmark faded into the night, trying with difficult passivity to taste the bees and the butterflies. Nothing ever morphed into a reality. It was the corporeal drenched with dead eyes.
In the made up earth that she believed, there was a ripening tree like the taste of green apples on the wall. Her blindness had spread itself out into eternities, and she was now painting poems inside their leaves, that looked like bugs had eaten them clean. Those modest, punched-out silky greens with a Peter Pan pose. It had been somewhere in the third night, when the punctures and welts had taken their place. She had flattened her limbs into the plain whites, like a silhouette. She had curled knives inside her like a lovers hands. She had thrown down the lemons eye with a handful of tablets, but they came back out with a twisting violence. She crawled the sides of walls like camouflage, and slept underneath that simpering tree. Waking up to that same feeling of warmth that she had when picturing an infant swaddled in a mothers arms, she grew to the size of the top branch on that tree, and the physical lanes of summers were drawn on the back of her neck, and tipping round that spotted tree. It was such a composed moment of life and death, that she threw the back of her hands into the green apple poems, and smiled thinking, this was it.
The times passed through her like lullabies, and the light had stayed in its place. Car rides rushed through her with laughing and goodbyes. A book settled itself like passion in her hands, a soft bear of a man was checking the corners of a little girls room, and feigning spiders across her forehead. And then, a kiss goodnight on each cheek, and a kind shadow walking away. The night light glowed on her sheets, in waves of delight as she closed her tufted eyelids, and dreamed a child’s dream.
It was eight days now since she said goodbye, wishing it had been goodnight. Fainting into the dirt, and getting back up, only to run away. He had been leaving the driveway in his black jeep, to get the thingsthey needed for dinner. Over a week now, since that car threw its forgetful fists into his heart and ate his life. A few blocks away were severe cries, a siren echoing through the evenings stairway. She was watching a movie in the family room when he had said he’d be right back, in a few minutes. She nodded in reply, and kept watching the movie. The film had an actress that was tall and lean, with golden waves tightly surrounding her shoulders, and she was yelling at a man who was shaking her from her wrists. She turned around and separated the blinds to look out at the sounds, but there was nothing in sight. She was still leering at the television screen, with its gray tones and glamorous gowns, but the voices were changed into the bellowing of victims rolling in the streets. Sitting there in the dim room, watching muted actors, everything inside of her started to drain. She became cold and nauseous. She couldn’t move or speak. Suddenly, her head dropped, a limp noodle, seeing something wet on the rug in front of her. She doubled over in sickness, and wiped away the cause of that wet stain on the rug. She flipped her palm at her eye, and the bright red from her nose bleed was lining up with those lifelines on every hand. She gradually stood up and went to the front door, seeing sirens floating by in the shady air, and she decided to step outside.
All of these days in this gloom and despair, that pounced like the lost piled up in chains, had brought no refined answers. She had been waiting on death like a geisha, with her appendages aching like a beat up stone. With her painted fingers full of that apple green, with her barriers laden with words that sting like broken bees, and her black hole of a mouth vibrating with such want. She slips into the trees long stems, with moss hanging from her shoulders, knowing she will not sleep.