There are sounds I can’t describe, sounds that dwindle past the ceiling in my home…somewhere near the telephone wires, perhaps. It feels as if it should be snowing the closer I lean my ear in to determine it, except it doesn’t snow where I live. For a short moment, I think of my first crush–I was seven years old. I sat next to her in her backyard as we ate cereal from the box. We stared at each other and her dimples made me feel at ease. Her parents were at work.

 

The antennae

of a cockroach

behind my kitchen trashcan

wave opposite

each other slowly

with all the time

in the world

 

Enjoying the absurdity of our world is painfully important. The pain in our world disguised itself as pleasure.

 

She had a boy’s name, my second crush. I can’t remember it now. She had very long blonde hair. Everyone would say so. Japanese eyes. She was the most popular girl in junior high. It started with a T, her name. Her and her girlfriends designed a ouija board from notebook paper and harsh penmanship one Monday during school. She turned around and stared at me on the gym bleachers.

“Want to join us?”

“Me?”

“No, the wall behind you. Yes, you, silly. Get over here,” she said with dimples.

 

I was too skinny

crooked teeth

chicken legs

short

curly puffy hair

 

I want to live a life where a spinning, smiling  California sun greets me. I want to wear shirts other colors besides the absence of it. I reach out and touch the leaves of trees and bushes while I walk, mostly to keep my anxiety disorder pacified. I remind myself to breathe gently: inhale through my nose…exhale slowly and quietly through mouth.

 

Cranberry juice is my

drink at midnight

wine glass

to take a break from water

which is mostly all I drink

 

I turn

my

head

slowly

If I do it too fast, the room starts to spin

The ringing in my ears no longer surprises me

I want to go to sleep early like most people out there who are not on drugs

 

I sit on my black leather couch and ignore the fungus in my toenails and bite my lip while I type. I try to marry the moment. I want to deceive my brain that physical pain should take precedence over the existential l’appel du vide. I taste blood. The salty flavor is pleasant in the midst of my latent sugar addiction.

 

I am glad I do not know my father, so that I will never know if I have become him.

I am glad I do not know my mother, so that I can’t call her asking her what the weather is like

in her part of the planet.

∞