Days pass. They come and go and I stare. This is all that happens. I am perpetually blank. I wish I could talk to someone and they would talk back. Use some sort of spirit-world sign language. Make the lights flicker or if that’s too surreal, cause a draft against my skin. Or maybe its easier to wander in a dream. The only problem is that I’d always think its just a dream. So maybe someone should learn to turn street lamps off when I walk beneath them. If that’s too tricky, someone could make them blink.
I keep talking but I don’t hear anything. Maybe it’s too close. Maybe there’s a holding area or something. A process. Like going through the customs with a dog. How it has to stay in quarantine for a few weeks before you can take it home. But these so-called weeks feels far too long for me. Maybe it’s like that. Or maybe I just die and that’s it. Maybe there is nothing else. Maybe nothing else matters anymore. Maybe your body heat simply evaporates and adds another billionth degree of heat to the world.
How can a person slice their wrist with liquid? It’s incomprehensibly brilliant and clever, glass. I am made of glass.
Because I am so jaded, time becomes elastic. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here before I’m swept off the curb. I find myself glued to the asphalt, the bits of stone sticking to the soles of my feet and the tar feels like ice. I see the lights of the boat on the water as we cross a bridge I’m hovering over. This fact is not comforting enough, I go unnoticed, never falling asleep.
The sun spills in the room and I’m still awake. The windows is open and I can see the breeze but I can’t feel it. It billowed around the room and reminded me of paper-covered windows the way it glowed. I remember it was very cold. I rise from the floor to find a hole, the room has no doors, only empty hinges. I walk down the hallway, past people’s lives, their souls open. Children in ribbons and caps. So many windows smashed, angry sprays of blood looping over brownstone steps. Crushed dreams, a broken heart and a few torn souls.
I wake up slowly, gradually leaving a dream where I’ve fallen asleep on cement floor. The dream leaves, the sheets are soaking wet, the pillow drenched. I climb out of bed, disgusted. It comes out of me at once, propelled by a force of its own, a noise I’ve never made before.
A gigantic laugh straddling a guttural sob. I’m trying to speak but its coming out messy and wet. A laugh comes through, then a choke. I walk outside. And there is no word for this. I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk and I walk. Something is building in me but I don’t know what it is but I chant anyway “Let it out, let it out, let it out,” as I walk, not caring if I seem insane.
And then I am weeping, I am bawling. I am not holding any of it back. I’m not swallowing so whole that it goes deep inside my chest again or ducking into doorways. I am walking and everything is draining out of me. And like a moron, like a wasted disaster of a girl, I open my palms to see scars on both sides. I feel as though helium has been injected into the spaces between my cells. But I feel heavier albeit slight intoxicated.