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The humiliation you carry so deep in your spine.
Tell the story again,
The one where they pinned you down and cut your hair.
I can hear your chest humming with deep-rooted pain.
How big I felt. How young I was.
My shirt soaking wet with your tears.
You screamed for hours on my chest.
Weeping for the death of your brother, Isaac.
"You are being so strong. Such a strong, big man."
I soothed.
But then you looked up at me with pleading eyes,
And moaned with the greatest agony I have ever heard.
A strange thing to hear, from a young man like you,
Usually so arrogant and brash.
"Please, Please. Don't make me grow up. I don't want to be a man."
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You, you are a magician.
You're smoke is sour and hard for me to breathe.
But it's the mirrors I can't handle.
The girl that is returned to me
She has the strangest look in her eyes.
Oh, how unsettling!
To see the one you tyrannized.
To see her eyes.
Not even sadness.
Just this mild madness.
That gleams like moonlight on the rim of her scull.
She is rawboned and bruised.
I will burn in hell for the way i treated her.
So will you.
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Winter hurts the most.
The lamp shines through the comforter,
and I can see the skeleton of the feathers.
My heart becomes hollow.
I can't breathe with these memories in my bones
and I pretend that it is 1999.
My parents are laughing outside my door.
Glimpses of purple jerseys on the TV screen behind them.
And a brown dog that sulks.
The Strangest December.
The month I was born.
Never felt much like celebrating.
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Isaac,
I found a shoe box of words and seawater, in my
bureau next to the journal.
Vanity has gotten to me once again. I've had my
portrait done too many times this month. But that man keeps offering
and I don't know how to say no. Besides, it's nice to be looked at with
such attention.
Tonight he did one of me smoking a cigarette in the
bathtub. And after that, one stretching. He said he likes my bones. But
how do you word something like that?
This is the first time a man, who is not my lover,
has memorized and studied every inch of my body so intently.
Everything tells a story.
What kind of space is there between the paintbrush
and the canvas? The pencil and the notepad? Is it the type of space I
get with you? I just can't get close enough.
His brow furrows as he tries to get my spine just right. I don't know how to end this letter.
The artist and I.
I still love you, (?)
Ariana, with potential.
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