Waking up, drinking water on a Saturday morning out of town. The air here smells like cinnamon and eucalyptus; my hair is dripping from having just taken a shower. The sun is out. There is a breeze that is slight enough that the trees don't bend, but instead, appear to have periodically waving hands.
The past week or so has left me with a sore throat. Not from allergies. Not from being sick. Not from being sad. It's something else. Something related to not saying something you should or need to say. No evil secrets, no unsaid horrors. Just simply being able to find your voice in a situation you do, ultimately and very much so, want to be involved in.
(pause)
II. Below
There was a room you always tried to keep me away from. Each time I would drift towards it in your home- the room off and to the right from your living room- you would intercept me, casually, and lead me away from its door.
One morning, I pretended to be sleeping. I heard you go into the bathroom, turn on the shower, fumble with and drop the soap. I got up quickly and walked directly toward that door you kept me away from.
What I saw as I stood in that now opened doorway, seized every bit of oxygen from my lungs; pushed tears to the rims of my eyes, automatically. It is what the body does in terror.
I took one step inside of the room to take in the obsession. The seasick dark maps that I saw spread across the walls of your room.
I couldn't go completely inside of the room.
I could feel my heart pounding inside of my wrists, my neck, my eyes.
The metal squeal of the shower being turned off, behind me.
k.
(image: Dante and Virgile in Hell, detail (1850), William-Adolphe Bouguereau via detailsdetales tumblr)
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