Even your worst day is still a day that I have you. You lowest is still a moment where I’m overwhelmed by the idea that I may be able to put my hand on your waist and palm your stomach at any moment. Your worst day is nothing when placed in the way of the steamroller that is the sensation of your skin at the break of my nerves.
Calf, toe, neck.
Blare the acres of your pain until your bones break, your hand is still your hand, your cheek your cheek, your thighs your thighs. Oh your skin your skin.
We were together. I forget the rest.
I have something’s I’ve started and that I don’t ever want to finish.
She has a sharp secretion, or an acidic bard that is sticking her in the inside. It is painful she says. I’m not a doctor. I think you would need to be to cure something like this. But I’m not a doctor. Whatever it is, and I’m feigning not to know the exact cause, it is persistent. It is built in to her conscious, and unconscious. Her physical. It stays with her like a bad song. Or just a song. I have to except the fact that it will never go away.
But that doesn’t matter. In fact, I’ve been over this in my head many times already. There are several ways I can go about this, but half of those ways are fantastic, too much in fact to be considered realistically without recognizing something in me is imbecilic. So after weeding out the impractical, the options that will only leave you begging for me to seek mental rehabilitation, I’m left with these three options.
One. I bring it flowers. I show up at its doorstep and I offer it my friendship. I ask about its mother and father. I listen to it and I care; I really seem to care. I loosen it and allow it to become confident in its stability outside of her. I take its hand and I look it in the eyes and I nudge it to follow me. We make it past the door, slowly at first, it’s feet no more than inches apart. Once past the door, it becomes easier. The feet begin to glide, and it stops shaking. The wind feels good to it; it is a new sensation, but he knows it is friendly. The ground feels anchored. We move faster. I laugh, or maybe it does. We are now running, weaving in and out of parked cars. People stop and watch us. People forget about themselves as we pass, unaffected by friction. I take it to the water. I put some of it in its hand and it seems okay with this. I whisper eight words into its ear, or maybe six, but it is enough to convince it the water is its new home.
And two. I kick down a door, push over a table, press it’s neck against the wall with a baseball bat and knee it in the groin. I press hard in every action and keep eye contact. It will know faster this way, of both who I am, and what my intentions are. This way abates time. This way we can move on faster. Maybe I’ll break a bone, although I know I don’t have that in me. But with adrenaline and alcohol, maybe I’ll find a way to snap an arm or a nose; a nose would probably be the easiest, less audible snap of bone. Things would get too heated this way though, and I’ll make a mistake. I’ll forget to check the back room, or make sure the door is locked behind me.
Or I’ll kill it.
I’ll push too hard and have to live life on the run, which won’t last but more than a day.
Neither of these will work, because in both situations I chose to ignore the fact that I am breaking into a home with memories. I am pressing its neck against a picture frame of four beautiful children; pushing something full of compassion into the sea. It is fine where it is; it has carved out nice little hole and just wants live inside her while making sure not to stretch too far over the spleens territory or through the heart, throttling the spine. It’s not not dangerous if we just watch it. As long as we know it is there we are safe.
I was asked what percentage I would give to her; how much do I want to be with her still. This question is poisonous. It tells nothing of its intended answer, but instead speaks only to the difference between the way men and women think. Thoughtfulness VS emotion. One hundred percent is an emotion response. One hundred percent is the quick way to a smooth ending. It is perfect, flawless. It leaves room for nothing. But it feels good to hear. It is heart vomit. Anything less than 100% means you now have to calculate a person, a future; you have to think. It means someone is getting judged, and even at 99%, someone is getting hurt. So now how do I rate my family, friends, dog, acquaintances. The teller at the bank. My boss. My girlfriend’s children, their friends. My girlfriend’s ex. I can either think of this all and do the math for accuracy, or I can just say 100% and be done with it.
Or maybe if I found out that tomorrow was it for me, that my time would soon be echoing its last ticks and my body it’s final tocks, the only thing to soften the edges of that news would be the idea of your hand and the prospect of your lips.
Why don’t you tell me what number that is.
If I were you, I’d ask …
When will you and daddy kiss again?
And if I were you I would scream in your face and say that your words don’t matter in the house you left.
If I were you, I’d stay up at night and think through the minutes left til I was at your house.
If I were you I’d be embarrassed and not invite my friends to my other home.
If I were you I would call it moms house and dads house home.
If I were you I would be angry and I wouldn’t want my friends to define me by my parents divorce.
If I were you , I’d turn my back on you and run away and pretend that this never happened and convince myself that not talking would make it not true.
If I were you I would ask you if you still loved daddy. I would think that daddy could someday be me. That I might wake up and your love would be gone.
If I were you I would look at your moms face a little longer and see a smile that grew a little bigger because she took a step that created space to love you more. And I would feel that smile and know I was the catalyst to it always being there.
If I were you , I would look up the word struggle when I was old enough to thumb the pages of a dictionary and know that not only is this my mom, but it’s me, and it’s you.
If I were you I would trust a little more and uncurl the swirling worries in my head. I’d ask more questions
Because I wouldn’t want to fear. And I’d want to forgive and believe there are happily ever afters.
So I want you to know.
There is nothing more sacred, more honest, more fierce, more … There is nothing greater than my love for you. I clutch my heart when I tell you this and feel the body that I’ve grown into start trembling because it’s a part of me so big that it pushes into the cells that grow you. It can not be re-created , it can not end, it replicates and multiples in you because of you. And if I were you I would believe me, your mother because it’s a truth stronger then any strength you’ll ever build. And that is the only thing I will ever beat you at.
Dismiss any binding authority that blocks a synapse that pushes everything to the side and let’s nothing through because I’m coming and I’m bringing a heart that attaches itself to only the brightest of reservoirs and quickest of earthquakes and never letting go never letting go never letting go until there is a break in the mental fissuring of a body that aches for a touch beyond anything the Milky Way could float by in a lucid dream And beneath all of that is a finger typing tapping rapping rapping rapping on the inside of a rib cage for the inner concrete selection of a woman it loves loves loves loves loves loves loves loves loves lives.
I’ll leave when you lock eyes with me and tell me you don’t want me around anymore. But until then, I’ll be right next to you. Even when your roof is gone, and you’re children say they don’t love you anymore. Even when you feel your luck has abandoned you, and “karma” has filled in the gaps. Even when you think you’re at the end, and all your friends turn from you. Even when your body tries to kill you, and I look like the enemy. I’ll be right where you need me to be.