monstrous
Anonymous I dream of telling her that I like her. Not love. I am not seven anymore, love doesn’t come easily; but she is laughing, and I think this time it might. We are in the school bathroom, washing paint off our hands. The walls are tiled and pink, and the room is empty, and she whisked me there, and I think that it might mean something. She is saying something. It sounds like my name and, god, I hate my name unless she’s the one saying it. My heart is beating like it wants to strangle me, and everything lulls, and I think I will say it. It will be so easy. It will be so easy. A touch, a look. I don’t even need to say it! And she will know. Beautiful brown eyes turned wide with disgust and fury, and this is how Icarus felt, isn’t it? She says my name again, and it sounds like when I was three and the ocean tried to sweep me away. I think I’ll drown in it. But she’s stopped laughing. And now she’s just looking, all freckles and long wavy black hair, and I can’t think. Can’t think. There’s only the pink tile and magenta paint and her hand reaching towards mine. I stretch out a pinky like it means something. I will make it mean something. But her hand moves past to turn off the faucet, and I see myself for the first time in the shape of my hands, calloused and scarred and spotted with moles. I don’t know who that is, all wild-eyed and crazed and craving, endlessly, disgustingly. I don’t belong here with her. My heartbeat starts singing of fear, and she’s still looking at me, really looking at me. She can see the cavity where my heart should be, the beast in my stomach, growing, grotesque. I can be the dragon, and I can be St. George, and she can be the princess. And I think I might tell her, just to see myself molt into something unnatural, just to watch her run and cower. And I have dreamt in silence. I have ached in silence; my heart has grown twisted and ragged. And I’ve grown grain like I can practice divination, but every plant says that love was never built for me. |