Skimming the surface

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I feel seen by your eyes; this frightens me

A bead of sweat drips down your face. I stare, enthralled. I find myself contemplating its flavor.

Your mouth has got me shook. I cant. Stop. Staring.

I peek inside your mind and find it lined with shelves, littered with papers and books, some left open and forgotten. I imagine you skim through them from time to time. But only when necessary

I want to be there when you get out of the shower to smooth your skin with shea butter while your body is still steaming, and hot, and wet

Sometimes, I imagine you’re stretched out beside me. We lay on cool green grass below a tall sprawling tree, sheltered from the blazing sun

you know how when you’re reading and you realize your mind has wandered? Well, my mind wanders to you

I fantasize about loving you. For this, I blame you and I blame Audre. In no particular order.

If I’m right, you think of me slightly less than I think of you, this both draws me back and drives me forward

List for me the following:

your favorite book

your favorite poem

your favorite song

I want to search for you in their words

The next time we are alone, I will not tell you how I feel

I write around you, not about you. I tell myself skimming over you is easier than diving in.

It has been a long while hasnt it my old friend? Since we laughed and talked in the old way, worlds blending into one garbled fluid dance, we made marvelous partners, you and I. Oh, how we moved through gardens and caves and fields and we played. We let joy flood our face pretending we were one. Not in truth only in jest but those moments, do you remember? What were you just thinking? You had a look in your eye and the ghost of a smile. Maybe you thought of me back where you left me. I’m still here waiting. Inside this house with its mouse-filled walls and its creaky floors. I still get splinters when I move from room to room, hiding from the shadows. They still haunt me here. Still scratch at my bedroom door. Whispering for more. It gets lonely here. I’ve made friends with the bats, remember how we used to watch them fly out of the house into the evening sky? We watched them grow smaller and smaller as they flew further away. We wondered if we’d grow wings so we could fly. Grow smaller and smaller. I hope you come get me. It’s dark here and the walls are not silent. They whisper secrets I’d rather not hear. Tell me stories I’m trying to forget. I miss you, you know. Do you miss me too? You must. You must feel empty too. 

Christmas

There is a change in perception which comes as years drag on. I’ve seen twenty-five of these days and they’ve each held their own tone, flavor, scent.  In younger years the senses were clouded, hazy, blissful.  Sheltered in the lies told to children, lies about the world, about the holidays, family.

Teen years the haze got denser, sadder, angrier.  I knew I had been lied to, but I couldn’t tell you how or why. I still played along with the script of deceit laid out for me because I knew of no other alternative.

Twenties though, those are the fun years. Sight keener, haze dissipates, almost disappears until the truth can be seen.  I sit here on this day, Christmas day. Alone, without family and I see. I see the how and some of the why of years, months, days past and I understand.  The truth of it. 

The truth hurts though.  How can it not ? I see the things done to me as a child. I see how poorly they were handled. I see how easily I am cut and sliced from the pages of family history. Blood matters. Papers don’t.  They joked about shredding my adoption papers. Because it was funny. Because it didn’t hurt. Because that’s what they did.  They chose time and time and time again. And I was never the choice. I was always second.

So I sit here, alone, on this day and I see through the haze. I see the truth.