I don’t want to write about tins or half dollars or coins or mints. I don’t even know why I am here tonight
because my writing will reflect my mind and my spirit and those are fixated on one thing and one thing only - only
that thing is not just one thing.
You shouldn’t have this kind of power of me. My friends and coworkers keep telling me that. You shouldn’t be able
to hurt me so badly and then tell me I was the one who hurt you and twist everything around until I am questioning
every last move I made and didn’t make or thought I thought or didn’t think. It’s not fair. None of this was fair.
It’s not fair that you honestly believe I wronged you and that I am self centered and vile. You called me vile.
You had no right.
I never hurt you. I never intentionally hurt you.
And you compared me to everyone and then got mad when I said that hurt me. And everything that hurt me you had
an explanation for and often those explanations dealt with how much more you were hurt by the situation or how
you couldn’t have helped it because it’s just who you are and who am I to ask you to change.
I wrote all of this in that letter to you. The one I sent you after you sent me that horrible email. You broke
up with me in an email -- and you say that I am the one who runs. You broke up with me in an email and in it you
say that I didn’t try and that you did and this is now a broken record. And I tried to be as honest as I could
in that letter, the one I wrote for me, but sent to you. And I was compassionate and I acknowledged how you tried
and I acknowledged your fears and your feelings. And your response was, “Fuck you. You ain’t shit to me. You a
stupid bitch. Fuck you. Fuck you and your virginity. Go straight to hell.”
I read that when I got home from Kristen and Maarit’s - when I had cried, even while watching a funny movie and
eating Snickers bars and Chinese food. I cried during a funny movie because, like always, I saw reminders of you
everywhere. And I made excuse after excuse for you and defended and defended you, like I have done for two months.
I blamed myself for everything, like I have done for two months and continue to do, even though I know I never
intentionally hurt you. And then I come home to fuck you - in another email.
And you couldn’t even bring yourself to bring my stuff over my house. Kristin says they should write a book on
giving back stuff after a breakup. Because it’s so not about the stuff. And you sent a 2 line email that you would
leave my stuff in your hallway and I should leave yours there as well. And so again you retain all the power. And
I am your fucking delivery service and again I consent when I know I shouldn’t.
And I swallow my pride and dignity again because again I still love you and I respond to your fuck yous with an
email and a card about how I never meant to hurt you and I don’t wish anything bad for you and how I hope you heal
because I know you are sad and tormented and I know when you do find peace you will take the world by storm and
that I will proudly watch you show the world a thing or two. And I know you do not deserve that amount of kindness
from me after intentionally being cruel and manipulative and disrespectful, things I never was to you, but I do
it anyway.
And I’m sure you didn’t even read the card. I’m sure you threw it away.
And so again you have power over me because again I am crying at work and at home and in my car. And I am driving
past your apartment and I’m wondering how things can change so quickly because 2 days before the email you were
telling me you loved me and that you were taking me away for April vacation. And even the day of the email you
wrote me that you are learning to move and sway with me.
And that’s part of what did it. Because I asked you what that meant and you got mad that I didn’t understand. You
always got mad when I didn’t understand and then you said like you didn’t feel like explaining it. Power.
I taught a class last year on Healthy Communication and Healthy Relationships. And it is a good thing I am not
teaching it this year because I would probably cry. I am teaching Romeo and Juliet and even that makes me cry.
We watched the movie last week, even though they had not finished reading the book, because for once pedagogy had
to take a back seat to my emotional well being and all I could handle was putting in a movie. And I started whispering,
“Preach it, Friar Laurence,” when he recited that violent passions lead to violent ends because they become a fire
consuming everything in their path. And the kids were weirded out. And I have tried not to cry in front of them.
Even when I had to quiz them on the word vile because it was a vocab word from last week and I stifled my cries
and stifle was a vocab word from this week. As was distraught. Funny how things work out. And the kids started
joking around and calling each other vile and the tears just welled up. And one kid said, “It’s not nice to call
someone evil and disgusting.” So at least someone gets it.
You never got it. You say I never got it, but that’s because you never let me. You made me open up everything to
you and told me we couldn’t move forward unless I did and how you loved it when I stepped outside of my security
blanket for you because it showed I loved you. And you told me two weeks ago that I had to trust you and so I did,
even though I knew better. And you lied and hid while I exposed every crevice of my being and turned myself inside
out for you. Power.
Like when I waited around for you to call and you never did and I waited for you to come and you never did. And
I was distraught and my cries were stifled.
I’d like to think none of this was intentional, but I am starting to question that.
I’d like to think you meant the things you said. But you were not fair.
I hate that I can’t write how I normally would. Power again.
Images. That’s what I’m supposed to write about.
Images of you everywhere.
And so I’ve turned into the type of person I used to scorn and mock and pity.
All because I believed you. Believed you when you said I was the cause of your pain or your feelings. Believed
you when you said I had meant to hurt you. Believed you when you said you couldn’t change how you said things,
even when I told you that how you said things hurt me. Believed you when you told me that everything hurt me. Believed
you when you said your were single - definitely single.
Right, back to images.
Until yesterday your black wave cap and your sports bra and your white ribbed tank top and the ace bandage fastener
were images on the cat perch in my room. And I was able to occasionally ignore those visual images. But the scent
images - olfactory, right? You would have been impressed that I knew that - the olfactory images were the ones
that made me fall to the floor sobbing. Especially the coconut smell of your wave cap. So those were the first
things I put in the bag to drop off in your hallway. Originally I put the unused chocolate tattoos in there too,
but then I thought that was mean and I wasn’t going to be mean. So I put in those images, then took them out, then
put them in again. The 33 pages of emails I printed out - yours to me and mine to you. Most were from me. Power
again. The certificate I made for you last week in writing, but never had the chance to give you. The letter I
wrote you last week at my faculty meeting, because I was both bored and scared in school, that I never had a chance
to give you. The cards you gave me - two of them. The one with the bunny from when I was sick and the small one
from the flowers - pink and purple flowers. “Hope this brightens your day. PS: I’m smitten with you.” On Friday,
I went to Danielle’s and slept there because I could not be at home and she gave me flowers to cheer me up. With
a card that read “Hope this brightens your day.” And again I turned into those girls I used to pity.
Because my students all wear wave caps too. And today the math teacher said Chicago really loud, in what context
I don’t know, and I cried. And a teacher yelled at a student with your same name down the hall and I cried. Images
in my mind of your bullet wound and your birth mark and your labret ring and your thighs and you playing Trivial
Pursuit and never remembering what color went with what category, but still getting every question right. Images.
Like my pink dress in the garment bag in my closet. I bought it a little over a week ago. The pink dress for my
mom’s wedding. And I modeled it for you and your eyes lit up and we talked about the wedding. How I wanted you
to be there and you said you would be. You would be anywhere I needed you to be. And I had told my mom just that
day that you were black and you laughed when I did the impression of my mom’s face at that news. And you followed
me back to my room, me still in my dress. You left the Juicy Juice I had poured for you and the tea with the ice
cube and followed me in my silky pink dress. And I undressed for you and put the dress back in the garment bag.
And now at my mom’s wedding those images will pervade. Images. Image maps.
I need to get rid of the Juicy Juice too. And the creamsicles. And the emails - a paper trail I keep searching
and researching for clues. And the spinach casserole I made for you - still ½ eaten in my fridge.
What am I supposed to do? Get rid of my tea cups and never again buy spinach or goat cheese or tomatoes because
they were your favorites?
Never teach again in an inner city because it reminds me of you? Get rid of any writing in which I referenced you?
Get a new cell phone? Avoid Davis Square?
Images are a dangerous thing. They can make you crazy.
Crazy, crazy - You liked it when I said I was crazy. It made you think I was being honest with you. And I believed
you then, when you said I was really crazy. And I let myself believe it. Because it made you happy and it made
you think I was being honest.
Images - in my head I made up images of childhood memories - false ones. Things I could tell you when I ran out
of real things to tell you. So that you would know I was being honest and open. You said there was a translucent
film between us. An image that stayed in my head. So I made up lies in that same head. Lies to convince you I was
honest and open. Because I really had turned over every other image to you. Every image and the connection it had
to the current me.
The current me. You said I had met you so that I wouldn’t be the old me anymore. I needed to lose her. She wasn’t
good enough. She was false. She ran. She was defensive. Images of yourself you projected onto me. And I let you.
And I believed you.
Images. Images of you now pervading those same crevices of my visceral being I turned over to you. Images of you
sleeping. Images of you running. Of you dying. Of you dodging bullets in your sleep. Of you as a phantom of the
shadows.
I am the girl I used to hate. Worrying about you when I should be angry with you - or when I should be worrying
about me. Or when I should be letting myself write about the images on the paper.
“The caterpillar attaches itself to a twig and forms a hard outer shell. Inside the pupa, the caterpillar changes
into a butterfly. Pupas are often camouflaged to hide from predators.”
Your hard outer shell is one of your camouflages. But you mistake your predators. The twigs you attach yourself
to are really your predators. They are weak and can break and there where are you left? I was never your predator,
but you treated me as such.
“You are such a guy,” you spat. You said that to me more than once. And I tried to tell you and show you how much
that hurt me. But you said I had hurt you. I had hurt you and so I was a guy.
And you said that to me in my most vulnerable moments. In bed with you, or upset on the phone with you. Upset on
the phone with you after having spent an hour of my day meeting with a police officer him. One of my most vulnerable,
violated, cheap girly moments in a long while. And just when I thought I couldn’t feel any more vulnerable or violated
or cheap, you called me a guy. I told you in an email that at that moment, my breath turned to ice. My breath turned
to ice. Cold like the arctic, just like you said I would find inside of you. I think maybe my breath turned to
ice to protect you. My breath was icy numb and so I could not spit back the flames you spat at me.
You told me more than once that I made you feel cheap. And then you would run. Run because now I was the predator.
You talked to other girls while in bed with me, left me in bed, lied to me about Tiffany. You lied to me when you
were in my bed and your hand was in that favorite spot of yours. You were fascinated with that spot, you said.
And you smiled and said that and then lied. And you say I made you feel cheap.
I don’t doubt you felt cheap, but it wasn’t me. You were torn. Who to go to. Who to lie to. Which lies to tell
to whom. Which lies to believe yourself. You made yourself feel cheap.
The camouflage started to fade and that’s when you ran. Keeping up camouflage is hard work. You said you tried
for me. Really you pretended for me. You pretended and camouflaged and acted - and that takes a lot of work and
so you were tired and so you needed to relinquish all of that. That makes sense. It’s not fair and it is deceitful,
but it makes sense.
I really hope one day you don’t need to camouflage. And that you use all of that energy to fight off your real
predators. Because they are out there, but they are not me and I am not them. You told me that yourself. “However
we concoct the image of those we need to conquer,” you wrote.
I wish I still had my ballet slippers. They always made me feel pretty. Pink and soft and molded to my feet.
Flat feet, just like yours. Yours played basketball. Mine pirouetted. Mine are like yours, but much smaller. Strong
like yours, but half their size.
You said I was the smallest girl you’d ever been with.
I think that’s why you never hit me. You said it yourself. I looked so small and fragile. You would feel bad hitting
me. There would be no challenge, no contest, no purpose.
With words, we could match wits. We were equals. You liked that about me. I challenged you. But I never flung my
words at you the way you flung yours at me.
In some ways, I blame myself. I told you you had to get the poison out of you. And so you spat it at me. I was
an easy target. You knew I would not attack back. It’s not my style. I can, but I don’t. Ultimate success. If I
couldn’t attack back, it wouldn’t feel so good to unleash those words on me. There would be no challenge, no contest.
You knew I would swallow your poison for you. You thought it was good for me.
I should have spat it back in your face. I should have regurgitated it right back, now mixed with my own acid and
bile, and burned your face, your treasure. The part of you you know is beautiful. The part of you you know well.
Your head, your face, your eyes, your mouth, your mind.
Better yet, I should have spit it back at your heart, the part of you you do not know at all.
I told you I learned a lot from you, in my moment of weakness and cowering, and you said you hoped I had. Maybe
I wasn’t supposed to be that girl anymore. Really you made those weak parts of her weaker. Distrust, fear, reserve,
swallowing the sadness of others.
Maybe if I had spat it out right away it wouldn’t have embedded itself so deeply within me. Maybe then I could
eat again and sleep again and I wouldn’t need to take both a shower and a bath every day just to purge myself of
it.
I must not have changed at all because, instead of being angry that your poison is living in me, I am relieved
that you got some of it out of you.
But maybe that is me being short sighted again and again missing the signs. Because your poison is a cancer. Getting
rid of part of it just doesn’t work. So now it all happened for no good reason. I swallowed your damn venom for
no good reason because it’s still multiplying in you and killing you and now it is mine, too.
Thing is, I know how to purge myself of poisons. I have done it many times before. Pints of liquid charcoal, therapy,
dancing, friends, writing, truth. What about you?
I wish I had my ballet slippers. They would make me feel pretty again.
Black Bug’s Blood. A tongue twister. An alliteration. You speak in tongues. Your tongue twists. Twisting words
into blood. Black blood.
Veronica saw me on Tuesday in school. She passed me in the hallway. “There’s something different, Miss,” she hinted.
“I don’t know; there’s just something different.” Then she looked into my eyes and I forced a smile and went into
my classroom. And she kept looking and then kept walking. Veronica is never late for class.
Tuesday in school.
The day after I returned your stuff.
Two days after “Fuck you. Fuck your virginity. You ain’t shit to me. You a stupid bitch. Go straight to hell.”
Four days after “vile” and “self-centered desires” and arctic tears.
One week after “I’ll have him ‘Yes, Ma’am” and ‘No, Sir’ing me if he ever fucks with you again.”
Two weeks after “I am here, I have been. You trust me, I know you do.”
Three weeks after the pink wedding dress.
Four weeks after “I revel in you, my love cut with quartz.”
Two months after “I want to try with you, but this is my debut.”
“There’s something different, Miss.” Veronica is never late for class, but she is always perceptive. She and I
are very similar. I saw her wasting away last year in the same way I am now. She was having a spiritual crisis.
I think I am, too.
What is it that is different? What is it I have lost?
I have lost many things, but the thing she noticed, the thing all of my students have noticed, all of my friends
have noticed, my coworkers have noticed, strangers even notice. The thing I have lost that was me is my sparkle.
I love sparkles. Glitter lotion from Bread & Circus that I have not massaged into my neck and shoulders in
two months. Because I have not really gone out. Sparkly hearts to apply next to my eyes. My eyes that used to sparkle.
You loved those sparkles. In my eyes, next to my eyes. “Spahkles,” you whispered. You loved them so much that I
gave them to you. My own damn fault. I gave them to you.
The sparkle I used to have when I pet my cat. When she’d curl up with me under my flannel sheets. My flannel sheets
that covered my half naked body when you left.
The sparkle I had when I performed. You never saw me perform. You never saw me sparkle there. My last performance
I cried.
The sparkle when my kids pleasantly surprise me. My kids who sang Happy Birthday on your cell phone. And you sparkled
at that.
The sparkle from passing out stickers. The stickers you did not appreciate. The ones I put in the bag of stuff
to give you.
The sparkle when I took a bath. A bubble bath. Before baths were used to cleanse me. When they were just baths.
The sparkle of going back to school this summer. The sparkle when you held me when I didn’t get in. The sparkle
that was lost when you would not answer your phone when I did get in.
The sparkle of cooking spinach and goat cheese pasta. The sparkle of watching you eat it. Sparkles lost because
now I cannot eat.
The sparkle of buying chocolate tattoos and vanilla body cream for Valentine’s Day. Sparkles lost when I saw her
Valentine. When I threw away the chocolate tattoos instead of putting them in the bag for you.
I’ve lost my sparkles. They were in that bag I gave to you - the bag with your sports bra and wave cap and white
ribbed tank top and ace bandage fastener.
In all of this, that is the worst part. Faded sparkles. Missing sparkles. Sparkles turned to black bug’s blood.
At least a concubine is made aware of her status.
At least Concubine #3 knows that she is sixth in line, and there is no pretense around that.
You made me your fucking concubine.
You made me your fucking concubine, but you didn't even have the courage or the heart to tell me yourself.
And there were warning signs and red flags every step of the way and I'd love to say that I missed them.
But I didn't miss them.
I ignored them because I needed to ignore them or I wanted to ignore them or I was guilt tripped into ignoring
them because I loved you.
And you said you loved me and that was why I should trust you and tell you everything.
But you told me nothing.
You should come with a giant warning, like a flashing red light or a bomb siren.
You are either amoral or immoral and I'm not sure which is worse.
You told me I was vile? I was self centered?
You had no right.
Today I was riding the escalator up from the train in Porter Square. That long, steep escalator where Hannah
broke her ankle. I was thinking about her half way up, like I have been thinking about her all day, when I noticed
that my hand was a foot ahead of the rest of me. This escalator has been like this for as long as I can remember.
The hand rail moves just a bit faster than the stairs, but it’s so subtle a difference that you don’t notice your
hand creeping away from you until you are standing with your arm outstretched and then you debate whether or not
to lift up your hand and put it next to you, or ride it out, hoping somehow the problem will correct itself and
your body will catch up with your hand. Or maybe you just enjoy the adventure of it all.
It can’t be that hard a problem to fix, making the hand rail and stairs move simultaneously. But then again I know
nothing of those things.
On an escalator ride, even a long one like at Porter Square where Hannah broke her ankle, it’s not such a big deal.
Even provides for some thought diversion during that steep ride, so maybe you don’t think so much about a fatal
fall down the endless stairs. But if it lasted longer, if you were doomed to ride that escalator for life, and
if you never moved your hand, your arm would be torn right out of the shoulder socket. Seemingly minute problems
leading to catastrophe.
I wish she knew me more.
I wish she knew how much I think about these things. About differences and catastrophes.
And now I am crying because I know she can’t know. I know she has too much going on and she can’t know and then
her not knowing leads to even less knowing and then I try to protect her and one small thing leads to another small
thing and I see the catastrophe racing toward us and it’s too late to stop it so I remove myself from the situation
and become the teacher me in crisis management mode - calm, cool, detached. And so she thinks that’s how I am or
how I want to be but really it’s how I need to be to protect her. And then I end up hurting her. But that hurt
hurts her so much less than the catastrophe would that I feel okay about it.
Saturday. Saturday. What the fuck happened Saturday? I tried to tell her I was trying to be her friend. I tried
to say it and not give away my emotions because Saturday was not supposed to be about me. Because she’s in the
intersection of several major catastrophes and I did not want to be another one, but I so wanted to see her and
take care of her. And I wanted to keep it about her and I so tried to do that. And then I told her I could only
be her friend that night. And I didn’t want to say more and I didn’t want to cry and I saw her confusion and I
detached myself again to try to ease her mind and her heart. She had too much confusion already. And I was determined
to stick to my plan. No kissing - no serious kissing. No sex. No crying - at least not from me.
And then she talked to her mom on the phone - another catastrophe. And I was more determined than ever to stick
to the plan because now she was more upset and more confused and more in pain and it could not be about me. But
I heard her say “we” so many times and I knew who “we” meant and I heard her protecting her mom with fabrications
and manipulations of words and phrases and I still tried to keep it about her but I felt small and insignificant
and I saw the boulder racing down the mountain and I saw my arm being ripped from my body.
So I tried to just make her have fun. Because he had said that’s what she needed and I listened to him. She just
needed to go out and have fun. And I know I knew better than that - that what she really needed was the space to
go crazy - but that scared me. And I knew I could take advantage of her if I let her go crazy and I was determined
not to do that. Because I would never forgive myself if I did that.
And I saw it all in her eyes all night and I wish she knew that if circumstances were different I too would be
different. That if she were not married I would be so much more accessible. That I do so much of what I do to protect
her and to protect "her" and sometimes to protect myself too.
And that’s why I was going to go take a shower. Because I was going to burst if I looked at her for one more second
and couldn’t touch her. And then she began kissing my ear and my ear is a direct line and I tried to walk away
but I was stupid and weak and didn’t and I knew I was fucking with the plan - the one meant to protect everyone.
And she tried to touch me and I moved her hand and kissed her instead and the rush of everything started coming
but I was still determined not to take advantage of her and the irony is that I ended up making her feel like I
had done just that.
Because I had wanted more than anything to touch her then. But we are not in a position to be doing that.
And I am afraid of hurting her. I am afraid that my touch will hurt her and so I opt for the lesser hurt of not
touching her at all because I think that hurt is shorter lived and less traumatic.
I wish she knew that under different circumstances I could feel safe enough to touch her. That my body and mind
and spirit would integrate and my anxiety would subside and I could just be. But everything about both the situation
and her scares the shit out of me.
And the things that most intrigue me about her and draw me to her and inspire my love for her are also the things
that scare me - her past, her strength, her dichotomies, her mind, her words, her spirit.
Because I do not want to be hurt again.
I wish she knew what my heart does when I see that she has called or emailed.
I wish she could see me study her. Studying her makes her less scary.
I’m scared to death of her.
And moreover I’m scared to death of me. Because I can’t feel whole in a given day if I have not had contact with
her. And that is not healthy and that is not okay and that is not me.
And I invalidate my own fears and experiences because I feel like they don’t compare to hers. And I know she does
not want me to do it and I don’t want to do it either, but I do.
And I don’t want to tell her about my food and eating things. But then I do and then I wish I hadn’t. Because she
has too much to own right now and too much going on. But then it is one of the only concrete fears and experiences
I can explain to her and that clarity feels good. Something about me that I can show - that she gets. That I don’t
fear I made up or exaggerated or try to explain away. It just is. It always has been.
And I want so very much to eat on those days when I don’t. And I try. And I think about her and try harder. I force
food down my throat as I think about her. I should be thinking about me - and I am. But I don’t want her to worry
and I want her to be proud of me so I eat when I am not hungry. Because I am full after it touches my tongue and
I make myself swallow anyway. And every sensation as it goes down feels wrong.
And yesterday out on the porch I actually did want to eat. But then we were talking and so it wasn’t the right
time. But the starvation was attacking my head and it was damp outside and my lungs were filled with smoke. And
I ate when she left. I ate and cried.
I wish she knew that I am throwing away caution for the first time in my life.
I wish she knew that I knew that she is trying. I wish she knew I did not want to rush her.
But I have no idea what this is we are doing. Because we never stick to the plan. And I need to her to know how
different I would be if all of this were different. If we were together and committed and no one else was in the
picture - waiting at home. I wish she knew that I’m not sure she would be different and I wish she knew how much
that scares me.
And I wish I weren’t thinking about these things on escalators. Like today where Hannah broke her ankle and I almost
didn’t notice that my arm was coming out of my body.
I am so tempted to write a nickname for you, and not me. But I’m supposed to stop writing about you. I’m supposed
to stop writing about you even though you embedded herself in my psyche and won’t go away.
A nickname? An alternate self? How can I have an alternate self when my real self has run away? Her name was iron
teacup, a name I thought enigmatic when I was in the 11th grade and we had to choose Chinese names for ourselves
while studying China. Her name was iron teacup. And I told you that. I told you your spirit was indigo. Swirling,
acrobatic indigo and that, unlike you, she did not exist in words and explanations and cerebral meditations. She
wanted to dance.
I was so sorry you had never met her. I met her. I wanted to nurse her back to health. And iron teacup ran away
to do that. Both of them are afraid of you. You do not see spirits.
Iron teacup. Strong on the outside and fragile on the inside. Or is it the other way around? And is that really
me or really you?
Either way she has run away.
And then I sit back and read what I’ve written and think about how I would raise an eyebrow and be suspect of anyone
who writes shit like that. Iron fucking teacups? Spirits running away?
And with you I wrote like that all the time. You liked it when I did. The first time I did you wrote back the longest
email you ever sent me. “She thinks swirling, acrobatic thoughts” it was called and in it you told me you had waited
for me to open up like that to you and that I trusted you, you knew I did. You had wanted to hold me until I knew
you weren’t dangerous. I could heal every nerve that hurt inside of you. You were there, you had been. I should
trust you. I should tear at the translucent film between us. We needed to have full access and be partners against
the world and the past that pained both of us so deeply or else we would be enemies. And I cried. And still I cry
when I read that.
4 months ago, I would have mocked it. Or mocked me. For falling for that.
One of the last emails you sent me said similar things. About healing your nerves and being safe on a mountain
together. In a dream before you wake up. You wrote that after you told me we could only have a superficial friendship.
A superficial friendship in which you wrote me emails about mountains and nylons and holding me and healing nerves.
A friendship I did not understand. A friendship that could never exist because you say you want to be all things
to all people. It is your inferiority/superiority complex. Really you want all things from all people.
So now I am left to track down my spirit. Iron teacup. And I cry for her and I cry for Indigo. I think your spirit
lives deep within your illness. Your physical illness that is really a manifestation of your mental and psychological
illness and torment. She is trying to nurse you back to health but every time she tries to dance you smack her
back down to your liver, where your illness lives. So she is forced to live amongst a cancer. She is suffocating.
I told you the other part of your spirit was peach and turquoise tranquility and I fear you will never know that.
And that fear far outweighs my fear of my own missing spirit. Because she’s been lost before and she always comes
home when she is ready. I hope she too is not in your liver, suffocating.
Maybe I need to give her a new name. Like lavender or Green Tea. Maybe then she’ll come home. And maybe swirling,
acrobatic indigo will dance and come with her.
“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” Flannery O'Conner
You told me I remind you of truth and that it scared you. Truth. “An ugly old woman” you said. That was
why you had responded to my email that way. That way with “stupid bitch” and “fuck you” and “straight to hell”
and “fuck your virginity.” You responded that way because I had written the truth. You felt. You never feel. Truth
makes you feel. Makes you heal, you said. And you cried in my lap and I stroked your head and rubbed your thighs
and told you I forgave you. I massaged your stomach, your stomach that had had to stomach such a dose of truth
that night. No one had forgiven you. You had never forgiven yourself. And I felt important. A milestone. The road
to truth and healing and forgiveness.
And thus the path of 3 weeks began. The path of 3 weeks that would mirror the past path of 3 months. Slowly my
truth wasn’t the whole truth. Lies weren’t lies. My headspace shifted and I hadn’t healed like I thought I had
and I hadn’t healed you like I had wanted to and truth again became a thing of the past.
A thing of the past like my standards and my guard.
Shifting selves.
I sent you presents. DVDs of Good Will Hunting, that we had started watching before the first breakup but never
finished because you were tired, but really it was because you were Will and couldn’t handle it. Truth. And then
continued watching on the night of Old Lady Truth and tears in laps of army skirts and forgiveness and new beginnings.
And didn’t finish again because you were overwhelmed. And Children of a Lesser God, that we had started watching
in February but did not really start because the tape was broken. And you are not only Will but also Sarah. And
a book. The autobiography of Alice Walker’s daughter Rebecca - Black White and Jewish. I had told you about it
more than once. Black White and Jewish: Autobiography of a Shifting Self. I had told you it was kind of like our
story together. The one we would write in 20 years.
20 years from now. When you are still running and have not learned a thing because the people around you enable
you. 20 years from now when truth means less to you even than it does now.
20 years from now. When still you are angry with those who love you rather than those who have hurt you. Who beat
you and shot at you and fucked with you. You stopped going to that group because you didn’t feel safe. They were
hurting you. I was hurting you. I had meant to. You do not believe me when I say otherwise. I am making up excuses
after the fact.
You cannot stomach truth. Your own truths have churned away at your stomach and there is no room for any more amidst
the torture and hurt and guilt and defenses. An arsenal. You can contend with the best of them, you told me in
January. Of defense mechanisms.
Truth. I want to see it too. I want to see that you hurt me. And you did it intentionally and knowingly. But my
truth shifts too. It shifts to protect you. And to protect me. And to protect her.
If I had met you before she had I would be her. She was the reason I fought you. Questioned you. Had reason to
be cautious. I could be her right now. Living in your truth and lies and swallowing all of it at once. I used to
hate her. Now I want to rescue her. I was never really in it like she was. I had enough distance to resist. And
look where I ended up. She’s in it. For a year she’s been in it. And there’s no way I can hate her for that. Because
I could have been her and had you not cast me away and had you left her I would have been her and so I want to
storm into your apartment, the one you claimed she did not live in before but then she moved in. She’s in. I want
to storm in find the truth buried in my stomach next to the angry bees and the forced down food and the swallowed
pride and caress her with it and lead her out. And then we could both do it for you too.
Because I could have been her. And in some ways I am her. Only you saved me from you.
You know more words than anyone I know. In your first email to me you used the word paradigm, one of my favorites.
And I melted. And in my first phone conversation you spoke of the incantations of your voice. Incantations. And
I melted.
Not last Friday but the Friday before I called you to ask if I should give partial credit to one of my students
who wrote on his test, “My cousin scathed me when he punched me.” You left a message that not only was the sentence
grammatically incorrect, but that scathe could not be used in that way. I gave him credit anyway.
How do you know so many words? How did you learn them? How did you learn them with everything else that was going
on? Or is that why you learned them? And why you learned to use them in the ways that you do? To seduce, to push,
to argue, to hurt, to heal. Cycles.
You loved that I got your words. That I got your words and how you used them. You hated that I did not get your
delivery. Or that I did not accept it. It was hurtful. And so I was defensive.
Last week I said I wanted to see you and not talk. Because talking was what we did best and worst, both at the
same time. I just wanted to see you and watch a movie and eat goat cheese pasta and drink grape soda. You hang
out with crunchy hippie people but you drink grape soda. You liked it when I pointed that out. “You can take the
girl out of the city,” I whispered.
You liked that I understood how you used girl and boy and what you meant by each. “Just a girl from the streets
of Chicago,” you wrote in that article. The one I found online and memorized and quoted back to you on the night
of Old Lady Truth and tears in my lap. No one had gotten it before then.
You liked that I used the words wave cap that night at River Gods. The girls you know don’t know that’s what it
is called.
Your words.
My words.
I want to find my own words. Or words that do not connect to you.
Because this is maddening. That all words lead to you. That I will never meet anyone who seduces and hurts with
words like you do and that that is probably a good thing, but I mourn it anyway.
Just like I mourn you even though I never knew you because you are buried somewhere under all those words. The
ones you learned from the books you read when your life was more than any girl from the streets of Chicago should
have to bear. The ones in your mouth next to grape soda and in your stomach next to the acid and bees and in your
arm next to your bullet wound and in your liver next to your sickness and in your mind next to traumatic flashbacks
and in your heart next to exposed nerves that I was meant to help you heal and in your spirit next to the peace
you will never find as long as you live in words.
If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at radacklani[at]hotmail.com and thank her for posting her Work.
Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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