vicious sewing machine
j. tyler blue
I have typed, deleted, typed again. This is one of
those things. Something I am dying to say and I
am afraid I can't say it correctly. I am thinking of
saying nothing. I am afraid I will say too much.
I think I am hoping to find things here that I lack
in the corporeal world. Yes. That is sad. And
dumb. I have no real hope of such things. It is like
there are two of me. Perhaps there are more.
Anyway, I am sorry for this. Even before it really
begins I am sorry. I am sorry there are too many.
That this is too long. And that it is too much like
other ones.
And this is not helping. This is more like stalling.
This is more like speaking of the weather.
Speaking of anything but 'this.'
I certainly felt closer to saying it a minute ago. I
paused. It didn't really pass but it feels buried. I
am good like that.
I am going to puke.
It is like this now at 26. Knowing what it is like to
be alone. I don't think of you anymore. Maybe
because I force myself not to. Maybe because I
have nothing left to think about. It is stale. Like the
air in my bedroom. Like the feeling of my sheets. It is
stale.
Pictures of my kids still sit in a box. Next
to the dresser. Why am I afraid of them?
I vacuumed and opened all the windows. I left for
two days. And when I came home I day dreamed.
I heard noises. It sounded like laughter. I opened
my refrigerator. The grapes were old. I ordered a
pizza and a 2-liter of coke.
I can't make it real. The refrigerator is too loud.
The lights too strong. The cars break my day. I
don't hear laughter.
My TV isn't on. I try to make out my face in the
black screen. Maybe years went by.
Does your hand feel like I imagine? Would you
release a small smile if I bit your ear?
I put a chair on my balcony. I can't see any stars.
Light pollution. I pretend the planes are aliens
coming to take me away.
They never stop to beam me up.
I start laundry. It finishes. I put it away. I am older
now.
I check my answering machine. I record new greetings. I
stop at sunrise.
The thought of somebody calling and hearing my
new hilarious greeting fills me with joy.
I laugh. And laugh. Until I cry. Nobody calls.
I lay down on the kitchen floor. Listening for
footsteps. Are you barefoot? My finger traces the
outline of your imagined footprint. I think we are
happy.
I t ’ s Monday. Or Tuesday. Maybe
Wednesdaythursdayfriday. Weekend. Week
begin. 10 years go by. My floor needs cleaning.
I return to my room. My bed. My sheets.
The air is stale. But I’m used to it.
Really.
