Sunday Night

I sat on my couch—loveseat, really—criss-crossed legs. My hair pushed to one side, a tangled, waterfall mess. The window was open, desert winters feeling more like autumn. Whiskey warmed my stomach, numbed my tongue. Thoughts were scattered everywhere—hidden in my oversized flannel shirt, sprawled across the dull carpet, stored on shelves behind unread books. I was nervous. I wondered when you would come home.

One, Two, Three

One day, I will stand up and walk out of here. I will bend my head forward, grip the arms of the chair with my weak hands, and push my body upwards. I will balance on the balls of my feet. I will waver a little at first, but become steady after a few seconds. I will take a deep breath, lift my chest up high, and exhale. I will bend my right knee, lift my leg, and take one step. I will bend my left knee, lift my leg, and take another step. I will glance to my left, to my right. I will make fists and begin to swing them at my sides. I will twist my torso, bend my right knee. At the count of three, I will run out of the door in front of me. That white door. That peeling, wooden door. That impossible door in front of me. One. Two. Inhale. Exhale. Three.

Gone.

One day.
But not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Nose

She had a nose that wasn't hers. Everyone in her family knew it was different. "Whose nose do you have?" She didn't know. She was told she had been born without a nose, so the doctors gave her a dead stranger's. A Jew, perhaps. She wasn't religious but she felt she should be. She didn't belong. Someday, she wanted to find the family of the nose. She wanted to see if she fit there, rather than within her own family. Instead of flared nostrils, the tip was hooked. Rather large. Because of this, she detested her profile. Even worse, after smashing her face on a kitchen bench while twirling in the kitchen circa 1996, one side of her face looked better than the other. It was a curse, this unfamiliar nose. What if she never grew into it? She would remain a stranger to others, as well as herself. Self-identity crisis. She would have to embark on a special journey--the journey of the hooked nose.

Joy Ride

Life's going too fast.
All I can do is hold onto the rail
And hope it slows down.

Alma

The fluctuating beams of light pierced through Alma’s pale skin. Her blue veins traveled up her arm, through her hand, to the very tip of each finger. They were thin channels, branching off in various directions, small rivers encouraging the flow of Alma’s blood. The tributaries entranced her; she imagined miniature boats floating downstream, little houses perched on the riversides, even tiny human beings lying in tall grass sprouting next to the blue veins.

The light eventually faded from the sky, Alma’s skin losing its translucency. She dropped her hand and dropped to the floor, sprawling out like a starfish.

Nothing Is Anything Without You

"How long do you think it'll be?"
"Oh, it'll be a long time, 'till it dries up--the sea."
"Who will it be? You and me?"
"I'm planning on forever. We'll just wait and see."
"Well, I'll always love you. Total honesty."
"I know, I know. You're my insanity plea."

I Could

Everyday,
I sit at the bus stop for an hour.
I never go anywhere, don't really want to.
I just like knowing that if I did want to,
I could. For that hour, I could.
I could go anywhere.