I think you love me because you don’t have to second guess me. My face is always full of the truth, I can’t keep anything inside. You call me volatile and explosive because I always lash out whenever the emotions take hold, but I think you’re secretly graceful for it. You, who spend so much time second guessing everyone else, never have to second guess me. When I’m angry, you know, when I’m broken, you know, when I’m happy, you know. I wish I were more like you, sometimes, but I’d hate to have to second guess myself the way you do. At least I know who I am, at least you do too.
At least there is this, where I can spill out all my secrets in the vaguest of language so everyone thinks they know, but aren’t quite sure, who I’m talking about. At least I have this place to spill my guts and whisper my secrets into oblivion. But, of course, how long can any good thing last? How long will this last before someone covers up my mouth with black tape?
Going to the dentist makes me feel like a little girl again. What is it about people that compels me to brush my teeth this morning till my gums bleed? Do I really need to hear that my teeth are perfect? Aren’t they already perfect because they’re mostly straight and not yellow, because they chew homemade cupcakes and my favorite pasta? Why does a complete stranger need to tell me my teeth are perfect to make me happy?
Today I saw someone begging on the street. I always give people on the street any money I have, even if all I have is three dollars. My mother says not to, because they’ll just spend it on booze. But I don’t think that’s true. I think they’ll spend it on medicine, food, somewhere to sleep for the night, gas for a car, bus fare. Why do we think the poor are all alcoholics and junkies? Is this just one more way for us to keep them down, or tell them they deserve it? Nobody deserves to be hungry. And I wish I could give them my Christmas dinner, my mom’s homemade hot chocolate. They look so hollow, and all I have is three dollars.
Which of my stories are true, and which are fiction? I’ve been known to be a little crazy. I never say yes or no, only maybe and may. I’m ambiguous, which is perfectly fine with me and the way I like it. I’ve learned that the more concrete you are, the easier it is for people to pin you down. The more concrete you are, the easier you are to find. If you can’t find me in my own head, then you can’t catch me, and you can’t hurt me.
Days like this remind me of childhood snow days, when I would wake up only to be told to go back to bed. Where mom would stay home with us and she would braid my hair. We’d go outside until we were too cold to function and she would bundle us back inside, draping our wet coats over vents so they’d dry. Then she’d make us hot chocolate and we would watch Disney movies over and over again. Those days, I felt like a fairy tale princess.
Today is Friday the 13th. It’s a witch’s day, that’s what my grandmother says before she crosses herself and mumbles something in Latin. I didn’t tell her that my boss told me a customer accused me a of being a witch, somehow hexing her lottery tickets. I laughed when he told me, but I didn’t tell him about the tarot cards stashed in my room, the two dreams I had that told me the future, how I look for signs in smoke from my candles, that I love mint because it is supposed to heal you, that mint tea while I’m sick always makes me feel better. I didn’t tell him about the ghost that was looking into my room when I was eight and I didn’t tell him that at this moment I’m trying to learn all about the heavens and how they effect us, about the zodiacs and the movements. My mom calls all of that witchcraft. Well, maybe I am a witch.
I’m having a love affair with pearls. I drape myself in them and put on my heels, and for a moment instead of myself, I’m Marilyn Monroe or Jackie Kennedy, minus the blonde curls and pretty little hats. Pearls remind me of tears, luminous and glowing. When I’m wearing my pearls, I feel like I’m wearing all the tears I’ve ever cried with elegance and grace, and that my sadness has draped over me like a veil of rain. Making everything sparkle.
You could be happier without me I think. If I’d never met you, if I would have just been a face you saw, once, and then years later you struggle to remember my name. If I was one of those, you would have been better off. I would have been better off. We would have been two storm clouds passing each other. Instead, we collided, and formed a tornado.
If I ran this red light, I’d be out. I’d be gone. If I ran this red light, that semi would hit me. And it would be over. I think it would be almost painless. I think people would think it was an accident. I read a book that told me the best way out of this life is straight and fast. No, no, I’m never going to stop smoking. I’m going to keep going, straight and fast.