Two Blue Lights

It was March 10th, and there we were, him walking beside me under the spring sun that felt more like an unwelcome guest. His shadow looked like a hundred maggots on the cracked pavement, and it turned my stomach. I studied his face closely, and a sense of compassion and pity welled up within me, for I believed he was a doctor's touch, a nurse's love. As he walked, the clap of the fading out sound of his shoes made me wonder who I thought I knew. I found it amusing that this sound filled my head not only when he was walking beside me but also when he was walking away from me. Sometimes he walked away from me while walking just beside me, anyways.

The buildings stalked us, their shattered windows gaping like wounds. People lived in them, but that didn't matter, since people also did a lot of dying. Nothing comforted me then. Everything prowled like a predator, everything swallowed everything, leaving only distant barks and the occasional screech of tires, a sinister rhythm.

I got tired of the lack of conversation, and the weight of my own body. I sat down on the pavement, seeking refuge from the sun beneath his shadow and my hands. Looking up at him, or rather, at the back of his head, I began to speak, partly to break the silence and partly to get on his nerves.

"Excuse me, sir. Are you in love? Do you like what you see? Do I please you? Would you mind if I helped you out of your coat and wore it myself? I have no money, could I fill my wallet with pictures of you? And can I say a word or two about the cadence of your stride? The subtle hint of a limp that renders you vulnerable? How easy it would be to defeat and take you over? Yes, I'm cruel, so I intuitively know where your surface can be broken through. But don't worry, I have no intentions of exploiting such fragility or preying upon your weakness. I'm not that kind of person. I don't need your shame to mend my broken pride. Could I untangle the knots in your hair? Or shave it if you'd let me? Why're you always in such a hurry walking me home? You only have a broken shower head, an uncomfortable chair, and a frozen cake waiting for you at home. And a pack of cigarettes you haven't touched in weeks because you had promised your mother. Will we have sex the next time I see you or will we just share a meal and make up sounds?"

He looked my way but not at me, and said: "Nothing kills my erection faster than a full cheesecake and a bottle of wine and the thought of how repulsive I must look."

I scoffed and said, "Such a man thing to do."

"What is?"

"Typical of a man to respond to just one of the many things said to him."

"Well, my limp is hardly noticeable" he spoke. 

"To me, it is not," I asserted, "because I love you. There are moments when you repulse me, but it's only because I love you. Do you find me repulsive at all?"

"Should I?" he asked.

"I don't care about your love unless you find me irredeemable and repulsive and still find it in yourself to have love for me."

"You're irredeemable and repulsive." He spoke, seemingly amused by my earnestness, unaware of how seriously I took what I just said. 

More silence followed, a heavy curtain descending between us, muffling any potential sound. I didn't want to tell him anything. I couldn't figure out if I felt strange in his presence or in my own, for we were always stitched together in one way or another, and I couldn't tell what the source of my uneasiness was. Whenever he walked me home like this, and I opened the front door to my house and walked in, I imagined him floating in the air in a mess of blue light, walking through my walls, shrinking and settling down on my right shoulder. So, despite our infrequent encounters, I never felt alone. The first time he looked at me it made me acutely aware of myself. And a strange delusion followed, where I was convinced for months that my limbs looked awkward, too tall, too short, too wide, too narrow, that my spine was all twisted, my fingers stretched for miles and miles. I felt like a performing circus animal even when he wasn't around, hunting myself to exhaustion once he was done hunting me, every interaction only solidifying my status as some kind of freak in my head.

"And what's so repulsive about me, then?" I asked.

He furrowed his brows, seemed to really think about it, looking down at his shoes and taking big deep breaths. It struck me as both amusing and endearing, this pretense of needing to ponder. I got closer to him, playfully nudging him, urging him to just spit it out.

"You're mean," he began, his words slow. "You're timid and bold, shy and fiery. Your posture is atrocious, you look like a primitive thing rather than a woman. You have no qualms about scolding me for anything, you're disagreeable and unforgiving, even cruel at times. You bite just to kiss, and kiss just to bite, and you relish in being needed, despite often feeling helpless when the need arises. You want anything and everything, but you just don't know what to do with it when it's all handed to you. You find more pleasure in hating yourself than loving me; so you're inherently selfish and narcissistic, and you hate me for loving you because I challenge the way you view yourself. How dare I have the audacity to do so? You fold your shirts incorrectly. And, to top it off, my father despises you."

"We should get married" I said, smiling a smile that felt rehearsed.

He had a dreadful nosebleed for the remainder of our walk, with his neck and shirt stained red. Strangely, I thought he wore it well. He didn't kiss me because he didn't want to get his blood all over me, a gesture I found rather insulting, sparking an argument between us. We soon reached my doorstep, exchanging farewells. Stepping inside, I half-expected him to float through the walls and follow me inside as he usually did, but this time, he simply remained outside. And the next time we saw each other on April 4, we did not have sex.

Marriage

Dawn burst, violent like a ruptured womb— the sun reincarnated as itself for the millionth time. Light spilled, faltered—hesitating at the rusted bed's edge where she, the bride-to-be, lay so still she might be mistaken for dead. The light did nothing to warm the air that moved like knives over her skin, turning it a flirty purple, as if her flesh were bruising from the cold alone.

Then, the mourning dove perched on the frost-laced sill, barely distinguishable from the morning mist. The dove's gentle eyes rested upon the bride, and a silent conversation unfolded between them. It cooed softly, a sound not heard but felt. 

“Awaken,” it cooed, “adorn yourself with the garb of despair, for today you wed life.”

"Rise. Rise. Rise, now, my beautiful. It is time."

The bride's response was a mere flutter of eyelids, acknowledging the call. There was no fear in her, only a profound recognition of the pact they shared. In this moment, the room—the entire world—seemed to hold its breath, the space between each heartbeat stretched thin, the stillness punctuated only by the intermittent puffs of visible breath that escaped her lips.

She sat up. The room was a bare shell, containing only a rusted bed and a wall from which a wedding dress hung—ugly, faded, the color of neglect. The dress seemed woven from the dust of forgotten months spent asleep. A wind came in through the unsheltered window, it cut across the room with a cruelty that seemed deliberate, and she stared for a while at the frost that had settled on the inside of the glass, so thick it mimicked the lace of the gown, mocking its pretend elegance.

She dreamt and dreamt of this day, and how she'd cry—a relentless, piercing wail that would refuse comfort, how her hands would clench with such intensity that her knuckles would whiten before they'd ever see the world. She would reject her mother’s breast and milk, keep her eyes wide open, never blinking, as if even in her earliest days she saw too much of the world’s sharp edges. And she could not wait to look at her mother with an implacable hatred, as if indicting her for the existence she had been given.

She stopped her dreaming, looked ahead. The dress hung, waiting to be filled and taken over. As she approached, the fabric crackled, mocking her body. Slipping into it was an act of violence; the dress clung to her, too tight, seams straining against her frail, almost skeletal frame. It pinched her skin, suffocated her. Every breath was a battle, with the fabric turning her movements into a pantomime of a bride. But it would soon be worth it. Or so she hoped.

Stepping from the room, barefoot, she found herself enveloped by a congregation of women—widows of life, brides-to-be, nurses, milk mothers, midwives, whores. They lifted her above, their hands cold yet strangely comforting, bearing her through the blasted landscape to what remained of an ancient cathedral, its roof long surrendered to the sky, its stones succumbing to ruin, collapsing in on itself with every little movement. A bleached bone sanctuary wherein crumbling walls sung the slow songs of decay.

The earth lay desolate, scorched as though devoured by flames, reduced to ash and the stark silhouettes of long gone love and tree skeletons. Amidst this bleakness, jarringly vibrant splashes emerged—honeysuckle, belladonna, and foxglove, blooming defiantly, their beauty making women weep.

As the women encircled her one last time, their collective mourning rose and fell, a lamentation not just for the bride but for themselves, and for every ending that a beginning promised. Everywhere there was a grieving—an ache that enveloped everything. Her dress fluttered against her legs, ribbons and honeysuckle woven through her headdress—a nod to the ritual that birthed her widowhood. The air, thick with the scent of bloodrot and flowers, clung to the veiling that obscured her face, making it hard to inhale.

Suddenly, a warmth.

Inside the crumbling cathedral of the mother’s body, a life stirs, awakening with urgency. The bride falls to her knees, her delicate hands turn to claws, and she starts digging them deep into the dirt, each unconscious movement marked with some ancient brutality. The air, thick with blood, surrounds the cathedral, now a sacrificial altar to the bride's emergence. The once-sturdy bones of the cathedral crack and realign under the relentless new life, with a mouthful of cries. The mother can do nothing in the face of this merciless renaissance, so she wraps her body around the chaos, an embrace that both shields and suffocates. The bride, draped in the viscera of her violent emergence, cries out, not of innocence but of conquest. 

A first gasp of air.

The mourning dove speaks, its voice now faint, but the bride hears it.

"Death, the silent heir of joy and despair, now walks among the women gathered there. In marrying life, she’s wed to its end, death, inherited like a surname. The infant, emerging, shatters her mother's anatomy, for to enter life, one must first dismantle the world that is the mother. Happy birthday, my daughter, and may you rest in peace."

Dawn burst, violent like a ruptured womb— the sun reincarnated as itself for the millionth time. Light spilled, faltered—hesitating at the rusted bed's edge where she, the bride-to-be, lay so still she might be mistaken for dead.

You Are It

 Long before men and everything they know existed, God put together a woman as an experiment. She sat on a chair and maintained a profound stillness, believing that any sound she made would taint the essence of it. If you asked her what it was, she’d tell you that was it. She was up to her neck in wonder and resembled, on bad days, a woman drowning on land. The itch of curiosity was inevitable, the thirst for wisdom was a built-in craving. Yet, she declared with fervor, to make a sound would be to desecrate it. She remained motionless, her limbs rigid, her gaze fixed, observing and adoring from a distance. Any deeper involvement would defile the sacred object of her curiosity.

As a child, she had once plucked a rose, cruel in her naivety, and put it in a vase by her bed, mesmerized by its unfolding beauty that seemed to swell beyond its petals, eternal and aloof. She looked up to it, and wanted to learn the art of opening up without revealing a single thing. But the rose gradually withered, its delicate petals wrinkling, its vibrant pink fading into a brittle brown. And it died like a martyr holding tight to its secrets. It was then she first pondered the necessity of thorns: they were guards, fierce in their duty to protect it. And so, she learned the art of self-defense from a decaying rose. 

Now, aged and wiser, anchored to that chair, she knew better than to ever pluck the rose again. The only way to know a thing was to never let the thing know you were there to know it, to watch without being seen, and know without being known. To be known was terrifying. Equally terrifying was the knowing, akin to possessing the world's most potent weapon without knowing how to wield it. So— she remained silent, only ever saying, “We are meant to ask questions, not to receive answers. The pursuit of it is it."

Years cemented her to that chair, her body warping, growing rigid with time. She asked herself what dying was. Perhaps God, too, was searching for it, and she was the rose on His nightstand. She wasn't dying from old age but from protecting it, her mortality turning into her sharpest weapon. And long after her flesh faded, her bones would linger— a reminder for Him that creation was doomed and He would never know it. And so, He made men. And so, He remained quiet, anonymous, hidden. 

His indifference, His distance, His silence, made Him it.

Wallet

The other night, my mother lobbed a grenade at me, “What’re they like?”

I quietly said, "They’re the type to keep a picture of their wallet in their wallet, you know the type." 

Later, as darkness folded around my bed, that thought spun wildly in my head. The walls of my skull pressed inward, a throbbing ache set in like a relentless seismic tick. Loneliness surged up like a huge wave in the deep ocean, powerful yet pathetic, because it swelled and died unseen, unfelt by any shore. 

This crushing pain swamped me, and I wanted to scream it at you, wanted to tell you how devastatingly hollow it felt. But my words crumbled; my language collapsed, my lips failed me. Every letter that dared escape my lips began its descent into the ground, sinking, drowning, lost. 

I kneeled down and put my mouth on the ground, tongue like a fishing rod, scouring the earth for meaning, sharpening my teeth on tenderness and devotion, only to leave toothless like a baby.

Mountain

 This mountain between us was carved by the very god who, in the same breath, robbed me of my limbs—my arms, hands, legs, and feet. You're so immediate, entangled in the apathetic dance of clashing continental plates, obscured by the intimacy of stones, rocks, dirt, and dust. It is this togetherness that separates us. It is always the togetherness.

 I have never been forgiven for wanting.  I confess now, the purest thing I can offer you is my absence. As long as I'm out of your sight, I will remain beautiful. And that sounds beautiful too, to be beautiful. But was that ever what I wanted from you? I did what I had to do. And I still don't feel beautiful. There is a peculiar sadness that accompanies the knowledge that you remember me, just as I remember you. Now, grief dances around me, unpredictable, its presence swelling and shrinking with my changing heart. I walk around cradling loss like a mother, yet gripping tight to shards of hope.

 After all, anything could be a sign- every fleeting gesture becomes laden with significance, a reason to shed one's garments. And so, I stand here, stripped bare, hurling myself relentlessly at the mountain, devoured by an insatiable desire for the kind of togetherness that will not destroy me. I shut my eyes and I fantasize it is you that surrounds me. It is never you. It is the rocks and the mud and the sand that claim me, invading my eyes, my mouth, and my palms. 

I'm sorry I became the very thing I tried to leave behind to get to you.

I want nothing but your forgiveness.

Bubble Wrap

Saturday. Mugs aligned like soldiers on the kitchen counter, color-coded, sizes vast and modest. A red bowl cradles red cherries. The sun lazily stretches its limbs, swelling, seeping into the room. Quiet and flickering. Everything's in my head, I'm just trying to decide how big my imagination should be. I'm just trying to decide what to make up in my head. Just trying to decide what to eat for breakfast. The coffee brews; I tense and release my jaw, crack my knuckles, bounce my legs, bite at my fingertips like a restless little animal. The coffee is ready, and it is too hot. A morning unmarked by a burnt tongue feels too wrong. Taking a sip, standing up. But I can't quite stand the unbearable noise of all this silence. Suddenly, I recall the box of images, the weatherman's firm voice bouncing off the walls and hitting me in the head, an assault on the senses. Brain damage. He forecasts rain—an unnecessary prophecy. Yet his voice paints over the emptiness. I let him.

Now, the news. Not the news. The mug clatters into the sink as the anchor's voice spills a tale of a body discovered beneath a bridge. Unidentified, with short brown hair—he details, but I don't quite hear the rest. I don't need to. I leave, wandering through town under the weight of whispered speculations, the collective gaze dripping with concern. "Did he kill himself?" they ask, but I don't quite hear the rest. I don't need to. 

I buy some milk. The cashier asks me if I've heard about the dead man. "Which one?" I ask. She looks away, and I think about how pretty her skin is. I wish her well without meaning it, and leave. My boots never carry me anywhere good; I take a strange route, a red-painted bridge. Rusty iron, scraped paint, graffiti vomit. I look up, and I look down. I lean over, pressing against the cool metal, peering down at the caution tape, yellow and sinister. Almost saw him there, almost saw him in all his glory. Joy vanished, if there was any.

Since the day he left, I've buried him every morning. He's the face on every dead man they find, every tragic news blip—every single one. I've been to more funerals than I can count, my wardrobe of black dresses completely worn through. Strangers, they've wept on my shoulder, thinking I'm someone—anyone—a friend, a coworker, a neighbor. And each time, each and every single time, I exhale that perverse sigh of relief, thank God it's not him they’re putting in the ground. But he's dead to me, dead in ways I wish I could take back, undo the knots of time and wrap him up in bubble wrap, lock him in a room and swallow the keys, just to know he'll always exist. 

Never was,

Look, just look—not yours. Never was. 

The laugh from a stranger across the street, that shimmer in their eye, not yours. Don't touch. Don't steal. It's for them, them and everyone else. Keep moving. Feet hit the ground. Flowers on the pavement, blooming recklessly. Faster, don't yearn, don't stop to smell those flowers. People smiling? For others. The laughter in bars, the clinking glasses—not meant for your ears. Love is drifting like a leaf down the stream, always out of grasp. Always leaving. Never for you. That water's not yours to disturb. 

Ignore the pull, the ugly greed of wanting. It's a trap, it's quicksand, it swallows you whole. Don't forget. It's immoral to assume, sinful to even believe you’re entitled to anything—a glance, a touch, anything. Keep your desires on a leash, tight. Choke them if you must. Grasping leads to nothing but empty hands. Remember, always remember: what glows, glows away from you. Don't linger on gazes, don't get tangled in talks. Connection is a currency you can't afford.

THEN- A sharp breath. There. Her.

The curve of her neck, the delicate slope—a marble cliff. Her hand brushes against yours, accidental, brief, too warm, not meant for you. Snap back. She smiles, you don’t. Smiles cost, don’t they? Cost something you can’t pay.

March on. Eyes ahead. Alone but right. It's just how it must be. Keep telling yourself, don't forget. Breathe quick, short, don’t hold it in—it isn’t yours to keep. You’re trespassing in a world that wasn’t made for you, or was it? No, don’t answer. Don’t ask. Even those questions you could think to ask, not yours. 

Never was.

Hands

I tell you I need another pair of hands to clean the blood. And you cut your hands off. Participation makes you feel undesired-- as if you’re no longer a striking image of the wanted, but just another reflection of light who gets his hands dirty. And so, you cut your hands off. I'm left begging for hands, any hands, to clean this never-ending spill. 

It goes, it goes, it goes. 
Blood loops into bleach, and then, fire always follows. 

There was so much smoke in my eyes. Translucent grey, mischievous but rigid. What do you do with smoke? How do you tell smoke to leave? Where does it go? Does it vanish or does it haunt? I open the window to let fresh air in. Am I letting fresh air in, or am I letting the smoke out? Is someone entering this room the second you’re leaving? Are you leaving, or are you leaving me? I've learned, bitterly so, there's a razor-thin line in that distinction. Unwanted, unasked, it slices through the fabric of everything. But whatever the reason behind your departure might be, the action is completed. You could be leaving. The room will bear the lack of you. You could be leaving me. The room will bear the lack of you. I will not entertain these questions. 

And so, you leave. The smoke leaves. Yes, you left, abandoning your hands like discarded carcasses upon the cold, indifferent bedroom floor. I don't know what to do with them at all. They are not birds, they do not flap their fat wings and fly out of the window as the smoke does. They're not cats or dogs, no leash to tug, no walks to calm the unrest. No, they really are terrible company. I speak of the hands, I write of them, I sing of them, I dream of them. I try everything to take back the power. When I write of something, am I making its presence larger? Or am I declaring my power over it? Do descriptions weaken objects? When one learns of the workings of a thing, does it lose its magic? When you love someone, do they become unlovable? I wonder if these hands were not yours, and if they were left on my porch overnight, would I try to hold them? I wonder if they were still attached to your arms, would they try to make things better? I do not entertain these questions. 

 I know that I was on my knees for two hours and thirty-six minutes. Then I bathed myself. Bruises are better than wounds- with blood gushing out. Bruises bloom like flowers and change colors and wither away with time. Bruises let you forget, wounds bleed stark reminders. Memories bloom too, perverse and embellished, from the barren dirt of my mind. The most powerful memories distort and twist the most violently. The event of your leaving involved no blood, no fire, no smoke, no severed hands. Your hands are intact (but not untouched) and I find that to be unbearable. I was on my knees for two hours and thirty-six minutes. I’ve earned my bruises like money. Your body is scarred by your own hand, making me believe life doesn't deem you worthy of its ugliness. You do it to yourself. And I punish myself by nursing your wounds, cleaning up the blood, getting headaches from the scent of the bleach, inhaling the smoke, watching you leave, tossing your body away. When your body's all gone, I'm always left with my own. 

You own every inch of me. I keep nothing of you. I could keep the hands. But I couldn’t. It would be against everything I know. I know very little but I get by. I know when you’re leaving, and I know when you’re leaving me. I know when to get on my knees. I know when to speak, and when to not. I get the last bit wrong most of the time. Speech is irrelevant, it is futile, fruitless. Words are mere sounds that swirl in the air briefly before silence takes over. And I speak too much. I was taught many words as a child. I was taught that words and sounds could explain this thing we were born into. So why, then? Why all these figures of speech? Why all these articulate silences? Why has my incessant babbling not forced your legs to disobey you and made you walk back and cry out for forgiveness? 

I look at your photograph and I flip it around and look at the beigeness engulfing the back of it. Do you reside in the beigeness just as you do on the other side? I look at your photograph and turn it upside down to envision your eyebrows beneath your eyes. I try everything to take back the power. Then I bathe myself. I know when you’re leaving, and I know when you’re leaving me. You’re leaving me, now. 

Then I bathe myself.