I think I remember the maze.
the pitter-patter of our feet uphill.
the muffled sounds as we climbed.
I think I remember the taste.
the spearmint scented trees.
the knotted vines across the grass.
I think I remember the gaze.
the hues of morrocan blues and reds.
the scattered woods galore.
And I think I remember,
I think I remember your face.
the map to a story untold.
I thought I remembered your face.
I am not a little girl.
I have tasted love and its poisons-
Flown high on wings of hope and desire,
Given all for a dream of forever,
All for a dying December.
I am not a saint.
I have lied, cheated, and robbed-
Taken it all,
Stolen everything I could possibly find,
All to be able to sleep at night.
I am not naive.
I have known pain and its scars-
Experienced the hurt of the soul,
Seen my personal knight in shining armor,
Fall, fail, fracture, and stumble.
I am not hopeless.
I have felt the sun and its warmth-
Watched the sky change its colors,
Heard the whispers and chatters,
of prayers enduring endless hours.
I am not a victim.
I took what I was given-
Swallowed it all and never complained,
Not when it mattered,
Never given my burden to others.
I am not lost.
I have simply not found my way-
She peeled back the covers systematically. First the left side had to be untucked from under the mattress. Then she folded it back into a triangle, just under her pillow. Anything she could control she did so methodologicaly. Anything which would give her a sense of safety, anything, she would hold on to.
She took off the bobby pins from her bun, removed the scrunchie, and shook her hair loose. The scent of flowers and vanilla filled the air. He loved that shampoo.
Slowly she climbed into bed. It was cold against her skin, unimaginably cold. And the room was ridiculously dark. She couldn’t make out her hand in front of her face. She couldn’t make out his form next to him.
He might as well not have been there. It was just another night he didn’t wait up. Well, she was tired of his silence. She needed to feel whole.
In the safety of her side of the bed she spread out and pretended to make snow angels. She spread her wings. Once. Twice. The bed covers were heavy and white. This is what snow must feel like, she thought to herself. This is what flying must feel like. This is what I must feel like.
He turned over in his sleep and she closed her wings and turned on her side. She turned away from him, her back to him. He exhaled. Once. Twice.
Maybe tomorrow he would wait up. Maybe tomorrow he would come home directly after work. Maybe tomorrow she wouldn’t have to stay out in order to be able to ignore the facts: that he was late, that he smelled like “her” perfume, that he was quiet and nonchalant.
Maybe tomorrow she could fly.
She turned on her side, her back to the wall, and reached out for his hand. Exhale. Once, twice.
3.23.11 1008 PM.
Hey there delilah playing at the ER.
She quietly sat down as soon as she walked in. Everyone looked up when the bell on the door jingled. But she just walked over to the orange vinyl couch. Mike went back to typing. The blonde went back to texting. And her friend grabbed his bag, yelled “Later” and walked out the door.
Plunk. Down. Sit. Feet on the coffee table. Magazine in lap. And though the world outside the lobby continued, her personal world, her heart, was on pause.
One hour eighteen minutes she thought to herself. One hour seventeen minutes. One hour sixteen minutes… Don’t tick by too fast. Don’t go by too fast. Don’t leave me too fast.
And no one was looking. No one noticed. Mikes clacking on the keyboard continued. The blonde answered her phone. The world outside the tainted, stained, blurred lobby windows twirled and whooshed by. Faces, bicycles, skateboards… all flew by.
Its too sunny outside, she thought. Its too loud outside. Its all muted in here. All muted and toned down. Can’t the world see its too fast, its too loud, its too bright?
Fifty five minutes. And the magazine remained on her lap. I guess everyone thinks I’m reading. I guess everyone thinks…
The vinyl orange couch stuck to her back. The smell of its plasticity made her stomach churn, her throat jam, her gag reflexes activate.
Thirty minutes. Twenty nine minutes. Twenty eight minutes. You got to go soon. You got to leave. You got to calm down.
But the world continued to whoosh, her heart continued to break, Mike continued to type, and she, she grabbed her bag and walked out.
And the bell jingled as the door shut itself behind her.
3.23.11
12.45 pm.
1 
