12 JULY 2004 (MONDAY)
Not Even Breadcrumbs
This is me, a child at this age, always following what her instinct tells her instead of her mind.
I just missed you tonight. That was why I called.
I’m okay, I guess.
I just wish you could have put down the other person and talked to me instead. That's the spoiled part of me.
But then I know that you will tell me that we see each other, anyway, but don’t you see? I never get to talk to you. And all you do is mock me, anyway. Teasing I can handle. Mocking is already insulting.
And I feel that you’re just treating me like a petulant child.
And I want to tell you, dammit, you made me stay. Why is it that I feel that I’m the one insisiting myself on you? Why is it that I feel like you’re just going through the motions, but you really don’t want this friendship, or whatever it is that you and I have, and that you’d rather be somewhere else? Why do I feel that you just tolerate my presence in your life? Why do I feel that I am neither important nor significant, and that if I disappear you wouldn’t notice?
Dammit, I need to leave.
This is horrible.
Sometimes I am just tempted to die. Just to make this all end.
There's rosemary, for remembrance. Pray, love, remember.
- Ophelia, in Shakespeare's Hamlet
Act 4, Scene 5, Line 175
She sank without anyone noticing
her lily-white hands floating above the water
like twin fishes.
She was mad, driven insane by love.
All women know
that death is more welcome than heartbreak.
I can almost imagine the silence
that followed. The stillness of rooms,
sheets swirling like streams
after you leave. The door swinging
on silent hinges. There are still shards of glass
on the bedroom floor.
I carefully kneel
as if in front of a confessional box
and pick up the photograph, the shattered frame.
This is my image – captured shadow and reflection
as if over a still pool. I remember the way your fingers
brushed my bare back, flickering
like light beneath the surface of water.
I used to swim in your currents easily,
never breaking the surface for air.
Maybe this was an accident.
Sharp crystal suddenly cutting through
used flesh. I try not to cry.
I do not mind the blood that runs a river,
cutting a path through the jungle of raw flesh.
There are deeper wounds.
You once told me that I had beautiful fingers.
I remember you tracing the rivulets
of lines on my palms, the ebb and flow of skin.
Glass shards shimmer, slicing across the paths
your fingers once followed.
I wonder if you have started to forget.