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TOUCH
I don’t write about love anymore. The word crumples up in my hand like a poem’s lines crossed out too many times. The word melts like the wax burning off a candle wick. The word prickles my skin to bleed like it’s made of-- September 16. The first and last day of the world. The day you and I met. Your laugh reminded me of the harsh cacophony from an alarm clock; your smile, half-insanity and half-hypnosis. Your eyes, that color of green which almost made me break like-- October 26. Do you remember that time I got stuck in storage room? After I half-consciously remembered where the doorknob was, you came and went back inside with me. Freezing and trembling, I don’t remember if it was from the cold or from you me. You guided my hand to the exit but I was only thinking about your arms around me and gosh, I was about to crash into a million pieces of-- November-June. A risqué dance of temptation, frustration, and the color of your eyes. Always those eyes. July-August. Half-hearted soliloquies and Lana Del Rey’s ‘Summertime Sadness’ on repeat. (A typical teenage melodrama.) August 29. I warned him. I told him a billion times. But I didn’t really warn him at all. I wanted this. When he reached out to touch my arm, he fell to the ground and burst into a billion little pieces of glass. I don’t write about love anymore. The word crumples up in my hand like a poem’s lines crossed out too many times. The word melts like the wax burning off a candle wick. The word prickles my skin to bleed like it’s made of glass. “You can touch me,” I told him “But someone is going to burst into glass and I really don’t want it to be me.”
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Dear Mother,
Can you believe they thought I belonged in that hospital? They assumed I belonged with those lunatics! As if contrived conversation could cure divine intervention. I must apologize for distrusting you when I was little. I couldn’t help it; My friends’ lives clouded my judgement. Their mothers showered them with empty kisses and sugary sweets, so I deduced that you didn’t love me. My tiny heart repeatedly shattered whenever you met me with apathy instead of affection, but now I know how senseless my sadness was. I wish I could show my appreciation for all the love you were forced to hide, yet I can’t. There was nothing else I could do. I’m sorry. I lied to you when you asked me if I could hear God. I said “No” because I was petrified, and my nascent brain couldn’t comprehend the experience. I didn’t know how strapping me to the pillar in the basement for days would make me transcend. I didn’t know why I always wore long sleeves to cover the sacred verses you branded onto my skin. I thought you went mad after dad had left, but it all makes sense now. By guiding me to the brink of death, I could experience divinity with every pore of my body. You were merely completing your assignment to polish me as God’s instrument, yet my serpent tongue wouldn’t give you any satisfaction. I’m so sorry. I tried plugging my ears with pills, but you cannot mute something that is intertwined with your soul. As if synthetic medication could cure divine intervention. After running away, the clamoring euphony ringing inside my head slowly ascended, eventually leading to my acceptance. My eyes were sharpened with the Lord’s light. I noticed the uncoordinated gestures they practice on their phones to act as if they were occupied whenever I passed by. I noticed the rapid flitting of their eyes from me to the train destinations or self-help books as I muttered for their salvation on the subway. I remember trailing a women twenty blocks down Lexington Avenue. I noticed how she galloped through the litter and the homeless, her headphones attached to her ears yet covering her eyes. These people have grown drunk off the Lord’s mercy. They have forgotten how euphoric suffering feels, and now they refuse to pop their rose-colored bubbles to experience it. They’ve cocooned themselves within their habits to protect themselves from God and their insecurities. As if drugs and money could compensate for divine justice. As if overindulging in motivation and hedonism could foil heavenly judgement. As if reality cannot creep through the cracks of tranquility. I know I’m not delusional, no matter what they say. No matter what you said near the end of your life, spitting nonsense like you wanted to “seek forgiveness” when I returned to show my gratitude. I’ve realized my purpose now, to remind people of the blood God has blessed them with. It’s terrible, how they got to you too.
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