Untitled. (Yet again!)

Blush_01

It's not finished (some might say it's not even started). All critique gratefully appreciated. Most definitely a first draft, so beware!



The sky is turning the blue it turns in the morning, washed clean by the splashes that melted party people into drowned rats. I was a party person. I am a drowned rat. Inside is cold as well as outside. Inside is tired, as is outside. Inside is sober. Outside lets go with utter abandon to the drunk feeling of a fresh morning after a night without bed. I am inside and outside, standing astride a crack in the footpath that runs directly from me to your front door, a broken line of umbilical strength. Afraid that my eyes will fall out of my head, I rub them hard to lodge them back into place. So far it’s working.

Tonight I was sitting in the corner of the sitting room when you told me about your plans for the future. I wondered where I fit in. You forgot that. I often wonder if you suffer from amnesia, the way you “forget.” I also wonder if maybe I should be a bit less neurotic. I can’t see that happening. But I can wonder.

I wonder if, if… if we were different people, would we still be part of the same final jigsaw puzzle? Would we occasionally bump into each other while trying to force our awkward edges into purpose-built corners and curves? Can jigsaw pieces change shape over time? Will those fitting edges rub away, making a whole new picture, regardless of who we start as? I have so many questions, and you seem to forget that I live in this too, but that has become par for the course in this relaxed-tense game we play.

The frozen pizza melts in its cardboard box, defrosting softly into a floppy Frisbee covered in cheese. The box gets soggy and starts to disintegrate a little. I get soggy and start to cry at the edges, a little like the box on the table. Soon I’ll be a crumpled tissue. It’s only Wednesday, the weekend is days away. How can I cope until then? I can’t even eat the pizza now, if I try to cook it it’ll fall through the rack in the oven a little, the topping will all fall off. Give me a solution. You try to solve everything I don’t need your help with in the first place, but when I do need you, you “forget” I even exist. I am so tired.

The sky is fully bright now. I’m still sitting on the couch, watching the pizza box, wishing I was a chain smoker, something to occupy my hands with other than the strands of hair I keep breaking off. Soon my head will overbalance to the left, I’ll be bald on the right, I just know it. I want it to rain again so I can dance barefoot in the back garden and let the rain wash away the hot tears that keep slipping out at the corners of my eyes. They have started to burn holes in my face. Maybe I cry hydrochloric acid. Perhaps I’m becoming a lemon, slowly. Maybe my DNA is altering itself daily so I’ll be a lemon and not even realise how I got there. Then you’ll take me with you to parties, just to cut me up in front of your friends and refresh their drinks.

You have been gone for a seven-hour-long 10 minutes. Should I keep waiting?

At around 6 a.m., my tears became torrential. They created a rash stream of red tears flowing between the raised edges of my face. I felt like a soup bowl or a leaky pipe with a drip running chinward. You still didn’t come back.

Look, we were in the middle of a conversation here, ok? The lies layering lies are still echoing in my head, I can’t stop them. Maybe I will try harder next time. Right now, I relish how they make my tears pump faster because you are lying somewhere. I know it is not a gutter. The question is more whether to hate your bedfellow or not. By default I am programmed to. It is funny (ironic, not ha-ha) that she bears the brunt of your behaviour. Maybe it is not so funny after all. Ask me when I’m more rational.

Today is now Thursday, even if it never stopped being Wednesday for me, for my waiting game. Why are there always games? The uniformity of the calendar does not fit for me today. I want my own agenda. I have my own agenda, I just want everyone else to fall in with it for once. The less you have, the more you want it. I would give my left arm for rain. I would give my right to be dancing in that rain in the back garden. I never use my arms when I dance anyway.

I don’t know what will happen when you come home. I will probably fly into an impassioned rage, threaten to scratch her eyes out, not meaning it. I might be completely silent. I will not be asleep, I can guarantee that. My shoulders are still heaving, but I have stopped crying. I am starting to clean. Dishes first. I will wash the dirty dishes, then the clean ones. Then a level of balance will have been restored. If you have not come home by Monday, the delph will have holes washed into them.

There are two cases packed in the hall. You can decide who leaves when you get home. We have both already left ourselves hanging on. I am just clinging tighter than you are...