Short Postings
Nobody in Seattle smokes anymore and the guinea pigs are dead. I am an adult now, but not here. In the neighbors backyard I am still a child, and children should not smoke. I’m so ashamed.
Everyone wants me to tell the story, the one where the dean accuses me of dating my father. I put out my cigarette and I talk until they respond and I can finally stop talking. One of the moms says she read my blog, “You’re a beautiful writer, really.” She never liked me as a child, I’m sure of it, but now I’m an adult and all my childhood pains make me respectable. Still, I’m crying like the child who smokes and wonders about the guinea pigs, that’s more shameful than a cigarette. I light another one with pride.
Everyone wants me to tell the story, the one where the dean accuses me of dating my father. I put out my cigarette and I talk until they respond and I can finally stop talking. One of the moms says she read my blog, “You’re a beautiful writer, really.” She never liked me as a child, I’m sure of it, but now I’m an adult and all my childhood pains make me respectable. Still, I’m crying like the child who smokes and wonders about the guinea pigs, that’s more shameful than a cigarette. I light another one with pride.
*
On some level I know that I am alive and I am wielding a knife. I am a threat. If I were to wield a knife again, I would be alive and a threat again.
I am a girl, I know this because the doctors say, “She’s got a knife,” and Mom questions, “She?” with morphine in her voice.
I am excited to be a girl. I wonder how much I weigh. I wonder if I’m the most beautiful baby girl on this floor. I wonder if I’ll continue to ask questions like these for years to come, because I am a girl.
I am sure the doctors will never forget me. I am a girl, I have a knife, I am 7 pounds, 3 ounces. I am a threat. I’m unforgettable.
I am a girl, I know this because the doctors say, “She’s got a knife,” and Mom questions, “She?” with morphine in her voice.
I am excited to be a girl. I wonder how much I weigh. I wonder if I’m the most beautiful baby girl on this floor. I wonder if I’ll continue to ask questions like these for years to come, because I am a girl.
I am sure the doctors will never forget me. I am a girl, I have a knife, I am 7 pounds, 3 ounces. I am a threat. I’m unforgettable.
*
He told me that he “smokes a lot of cigarettes.” Never had I felt so safe with a man that I didn’t know, and so quickly did I fall in love with him. Because he wouldn’t care that I smoke a lot of cigarettes. He would like it. It would remind him of being a child. His parents had leather furniture, the smooth animal skin kept the smoke out. His mom had the cough, he will hear me out of breath by the top stair and think of her. Safe, reflective, dependent, and addicted, all at once, even if for only a night. We will live to be 53, not know each other then, and our kids will smoke like us.
*
I was a freshman and they were juniors. Tall, skinny, brunettes with Tumblr followers, perky breasts, and male friends who purchased their cap and gown whilst I was still in middle school. My first serious crush was on a boy they introduced me to. He was severely addicted to heroin and young girls. We talked every day, for a year, then on and off for two. We met twice in person. I was sure he would take my virginity if there was a third time. He used to get really high and tell me, “I love you.” His parents would call me when he ditched rehab, because I was important. I asked him what heroin was like and he said he never wanted me to find out, because he really cared. He posted my number on Craigslist and I got a new phone. I lost our texts and my virginity. His parents stopped calling, he stopped doing heroin, I think he joined the Marines, and I know he stopped caring.
*
He was yet to read any of my work, but he seemed excited to remember that “I write.” He knows so little about me, he finds this simple fact surprising. He didn’t prepare this talking point. He didn’t think he would see me tonight. But when he did, he thought to bring it up, and I thought that was nice.
I brought up the dog because that’s what I know about him and he told me about the deer. He’s done with the dog, he has started the deer, and he’s already frustrated.
I’m frustrated too.
I brought up the dog because that’s what I know about him and he told me about the deer. He’s done with the dog, he has started the deer, and he’s already frustrated.
I’m frustrated too.
*
Before his plane could land, he was nice again. In preparation to re-infiltrate my life.
“Let’s see how long it lasts.”
His niceness makes me want to revolt. It’s why every time he leaves, I hate for him to come back. Because longing and niceness inspire enough to let him come home twice. Long enough for guilt and resentment to stay away, until they come home too and force him on another trip. I hate his niceness. I hate tracking his flight. I hate “Surprise! I’m coming home.” I hate that I’m still his home.
“Let’s see how long it lasts.”
His niceness makes me want to revolt. It’s why every time he leaves, I hate for him to come back. Because longing and niceness inspire enough to let him come home twice. Long enough for guilt and resentment to stay away, until they come home too and force him on another trip. I hate his niceness. I hate tracking his flight. I hate “Surprise! I’m coming home.” I hate that I’m still his home.
*
Black wood stairs, metal strings, and a turkey. Orange vinyl couches kept out the cigarette smoke. A pitch-black couch invited smoke in. Five CD’s in glass, spinning next to fire. White leather with missing buttons. Lucite chairs with webs on their feet and boxy orange chairs to match that vinyl couch. Thick gold frames on the wall, nothing inside. Silkworm spun chandeliers, with forever dead lights. Bookshelves were sturdy for climbing. Resin encased the grass under childish wet toes. A table with chrome legs and my name on its underbelly. A Dansk desk with stiff empty drawers. Barstools with bias, sopping wet white cushions, dirty old wood, and windows as walls.
*
Love devalued my home. I declared my parent’s divorce in seven words, succeeding one hundred and sixty-four about a new crush. Allowing male affection to trump the homes that raised me. The only likeness between men and home is their convolution and my undying affinity. Persecution, judgment, and resentment. Familiar and no safer than the others I’ve dwelled. Love destroyed my home and possibly my life. Distorted and diluted, love made home irrelevant to me. I have supplanted memories of home with sentiments of desire. Replacing my reality with fantasy. Remembering home and in turn remembering every time I left it in pursuit of something “more.”
*
We laid beside each other in bed while I told him that women can’t cheat unless it’s emotional. We talk about cheating a lot, and our exes, and our crushes. I don’t know why we talk about these things. I like to think it’s to keep from kissing. You can’t kiss in-between sentiments about cheating and one night stands and real love. That’s weird, weirder than having a crush on your friend while insisting you could not have a crush on your friend.
I told him that for women, you can’t have sex with someone unless you like them, even if only a little bit. That’s why when women cheat it’s so bad, worse than men. Men can separate sex and love. He says he can separate sex and love. If we put our two beliefs together we could have sex, right? Because women can only have sex with someone they enjoy, and men can have sex with whomever.
He can be enjoyed and I can be whomever.
I told him that for women, you can’t have sex with someone unless you like them, even if only a little bit. That’s why when women cheat it’s so bad, worse than men. Men can separate sex and love. He says he can separate sex and love. If we put our two beliefs together we could have sex, right? Because women can only have sex with someone they enjoy, and men can have sex with whomever.
He can be enjoyed and I can be whomever.
*