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What Must the Neighbors Think? |
The small – the invisible – the crouched up, fucked up, nameless one loosing smoke rings to air at 3am – all trail and catch and lit up - yellow, blue, deep red under - see-all street lights, under - green and brown and black eyes watching.
She drags her body down hushed streets at midnight, with teddy bears and – bags of what not from rite aid – crying to herself for no apparent reason. She knows she is ridiculous - locks herself in for yet another long drag of whatever whatever (hopelessness, devastation, self-pity - call it what you want).
She is kept and despondent. Cracked and indifferent.
Behind her, the door bitches at hinges "open, god damn it, open!" She thinks: wise door. stupid girl, then screams and – launches miscellany house-stuff - at knobs, at tarnish, at prints of fingers because apparently - they aren’t listening - because apparently - they just can’t seem to hear her.
What must the neighbors think?
She is all loss and hysteria - all fight and rebellion. She’s sure she is dying. She suspects she’s already dead.
The party down the street is loud. Music reminds her of dancing and not being able to dance. The people she loves let her know just how god damned selfish she is. Her robe protests – rips and frays and dissolves bloody into her palms – reminds her of vials and doctors appointments as she - lies on her unmade bed, in her – unmade house – stares at walls and floors and flattened down pillows - waits for sleep or life (or death) to finally come and claim her. Thinking about endings and just how fucking bad she feels for herself.
I mean, I know. I know. I know! it’s pathetic and I know it’s weak and I know it’s not at all inspirational but there you go. I’m no fucking Mother Theresa. I’m no fucking Lance Armstrong overcoming, so don’t -come - to me hopeful. Don’t ask me to break out some wild she-warrior shit. It’s not me, I’m not her, and the truth is, I just can’t take this shit anymore. I just can’t – take – this shit anymore.
(It’s a trapped in the body thing. It’s an – ’I can’t control this thing’ thing. It’s an – ’I don’t want to live like this anymore’ thing)
and I’m sorry if it’s a disappointment, and I’m sorry if it’s not good enough, and I’m fucking sorry if it doesn’t reflect well upon me, but you know, that’s just the way it goes sometimes. That’s just the way things go sometimes. It’s just the way - it - goes. Sometimes.
Light flickers deep into night -tigers howl – all caged and sad and powerless from sills of smoke stained windows. The minutes click, click, click. One year. Another. Another.
What must the neighbors think?
copyright 2008
Danielle
Grilli |
