I sleep in the other room sometimes. A mood arises and I just feel like a guest in my own home. I love the closeness of the walls and the ceilings that tower over me like a canopy. I painted roses on the walls and they look different depending on the light and whether I am wearing glasses or not. There are lots of things to look at in there. Vintage pyrex casseroles line shelves waiting for their forever homes. Golden makeup compacts with pale pink talc barely intact sit nicely on the nightstand. Art Deco hairbrushes, clusters of sea shells and green glass insulators sit silently under a coating of dust, my skin.
I lay in the middle of the mattress on this hot night. I taste blood in my mouth from absentmindedly biting my lip. It's so goddamned hot, dry. I hear my neighbors talking next door, music playing. It's nice. I feel like I live in a summer camp, kids in the other cabins secretly kissing, sneaking cigarettes. I'm drowsy with pot, baby k meows out the window to the praying mantis on the ledge.
I got kissed once. The best kiss I ever had was that night with Derek at Amy Ervin's house in St. Mary's. It was a back patio light dusky cold Maryland fall sort of kiss. To me, he was his best then. Now he is a sore that won't heal. A wound that picks itself. I cut my hair it still grows back. I bite my nails and they reappear to. I trim back a leaf and a new one springs forth. He's broken glass, a limb removed. There is no coming back from that; I don't want to.
I'll just lay in this bed. Begging for a breeze and packing my heart on ice. I don't think I will love again; I don't think I want to. Turn off the lamp, sleep in a strangers bed.
