Inside the crevices, dug into the skin of my toes, my total being grasping for air. I strip myself of the perfect house, red, greens and blues, gold, dripping across the walls, pillows fluffed. Waiting for something to happen. Someone to show them how to fit into the material that lodges over the edges of the ends. I am lost. Who have I become?
I shut him out. Deleted him from my email and cell phone. I shut him out, his green, dreamy eyes and wide lips and sullen gaze. I cut him out, ripped him out of my subconscious, letting the soul blood fall across my face, tears of my yearning, my deeper self that holds all the paths, all the directions. We drive down the highway in his corvette, Stevie Wonder singing, for once in my life I have someone to love me, and we smiled thinking this true. But soon the car crashed, and the red paint peeled back and what was there was only rage and despair.
We held to the dream as long as we could, but we both became sick with paranoia, defended by abandonment and tortured by unrequited love. We tried to suck from the other, to fill the hole that danced together for so long. The emptiness so deep that only a sick stomach and anorexic heart was left behind to mourn and cry over. We drove down the highway, the ad signs, Marlboro cowboy, Mr. Clean his earring dangling, mops, spoons and dark roads to a nowhere diner, a cup of coffee waiting for me as I dream of the past, of what could have been, should have been.
But I sit in my neat little house with gorgeous blue cobalt walls, lonely, alone, without a destination. Deep down something calls to me, I think it is him, screaming out to me in the night to release his spirit. This makes no sense. I need to be free. But what is freedom? What is the bell that rings for me to turn and see what lies in the horizon without him?
But I am sick. I vomit from the grip I have on the past. I cannot let go. Find my own self in the reflection of the mirror. I can't see, I am blind. I am seeing only a ghost image, something my mother wanted me to be. A married woman. A woman clinging to her past, a woman scratching off the dust of the desert, afraid that the sand will bury me alive.
We drive the highway. I'm wearing a tight mini. Him a sweet white shirt and jeans. It was a perfect evening. Moon, stars, navy sky. The breeze swept us away. It seemed so real. So real. Then he left me. And I left myself, thinking he held the key to me. Where am I? Laying naked on the floor, battered and abused from the lack of self-love. I hate myself without him. Why can't I feel alive without him. This is wrong. Disgusting. I have to leave. I have to go. Shut him out. Turn off the light that holds his face in my hands. I have to leave. I have to...where will I go?
The road I once drove with him is no longer there. No longer smooth, sleek and seductive. It is gone. But deep down I hunger for the obscenity of that night. The way I melted into his eyes, the way he licked my cheeks, held my thigh. This touch that made me feel that I existed. That I was somebody. But I can't do that anymore. I can't think of him as my savior. My way of running away from myself. I hate myself when I am alone. Why? Because the self I thought would travel the world, eat sticky food in foreign places, write great manuscripts and kiss the ass of the David in Florence, the one who once thought the world was in the belly of my womb...really never existed.
I am just the little girl shaking in the back of a closet. Shaking and shivering, terrified that life will gobble me up and I will be left in ash, blown away by the wind from a hollow hole in the wall. I want to crawl into the hole, like a mouse, squeaking, small and insignificant...where am I? Who am I? How do I save myself from myself?
We drove down the highway all googly eyes, hot inside, wet between the legs. This was life. This is the way is supposed to feel, until the vagina dries up and skin scales, and the eyes wrinkle. We drive down the highway. I reach for the night and hold it in my palm. So much promise, so much wonderment, so mystery...
I felt very disturbed after last night. Something deep in me crawled out. Something hot and heavy. A yearning for that mystery. I want to slip away in it. This world is one dimensional. I want to get lost in my subconscious, individuation is the spiritual path. I am not sure what that means anymore.
There is no other. Just myself. Writing this to myself. Talking to myself. Who is that Self? Yet I yearn for another to hear this self that plays hide and seek.
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