powah

When I imagine myself in the future, I am always crying. Very thin. Beautifully dressed, but crying. The reason is never clear.

My future body has pencil lines on its edges...curls of eraser dust on every surface. My arms and legs will grow longer. My hair will be magically stylish with blinding sparkles where the light hits...

Maybe I will be crying because I cannot take the memory of what I used to be from his mind. Every time he will hold my perfect body, he will think of how it used to be...how it is now.

Bare

Today is soft.

My clothes seem so carefully wrapped around me. My feet are bare.

My heart is mending.

Somewhere in my remembrance is a desperation...a sharp feeling.

I am letting go. So quietly. So softly. I am floating apart from a lifetime of faces.

This day. This life will be spent alone. No one will dare to speak. I will speak to no one.

Strings.

How many old women were once the prima ballerina for the Ballet Russe?
What do they think of now?
Do they still dream of dancing--even with canes or crutches or the hair of children clutched close?

There is a woman in marketing named Kim. I call to ask her questions very early--before she arrives. She will only return my calls if she is sure I am not here. To actually hear our own voices pour together would give away some secret we are keeping. We do not know the other's face.

Maybe she is the woman I passed on the street this morning. We glanced and frowned and went along with our lives. The Claire de Lune was blaring in my heart.

Good Day

I feel a quiet peace. This is a good day. The voices around me are whispers. My own mind is a whisper. What pale cordial brought me to this state? When did I drink it?

My fingers do their daily things--unscrew a cap, press a button, scratch. They move without my knowing. It is beautiful. It is good.

The September Song plays softly. I feel that my body is clean and empty of demons.

A row of colorful journals slouch on the shelf across the room. My hands will touch each of them today.

I am dizzy. I will dance.

I don't know what I've done.
I don't know what to do.

By the Podium

This morning, the homeless-est homeless man in this area rode past me on his bicycle. He said "hey" and nodded his head.

I said, "mornin."

He comes here every day and plays the same game on the same computer. The game is to plant flowers in rows. Every time I walk by, I wonder if he's hungry.

I have never been hungry. Not really.

Somehow I envy his hungriness, his homelessness, his flower game.

When I was younger, I heard a story of a professor who walked out of his classroom. He never went home. He never went to his office. He left his briefcase by the podium. The story was that he walked to the park a few blocks away and never left it. He was pointed out to me once when I walked past this park.

His face was dirty but shining. He was watching a chess game. Something one of the men said made him laugh. He looked toward the sky.

During the Webinar on Thursday

Something free
Not me
My body is a battlefield.
How close am I to hurting someone? Will I ruin it all and not be able to remember? Will they believe me? Everyday I find someone standing in front of me or sitting next to me, speaking to me. I realize it suddenly. I have not heard a word. I have been elsewhere. I know how close I feel. I know no one would believe me. I would be told I was silly. I would be told to stop it.
"Isabella, what is your weakness?"
I want to hurt everyone. There is no peace here. God doesn't love me anymore. My love won't love me forever. I've decided to accept it.
The number I see on the scale...is it the number that is actually there? I weigh my body every day. It disappoints me every day. I am ugly. I am everything he doesn't want. If he didn't know me, he would say "she'd be pretty if she'd just lose weight." I've heard him say it about girls like me.
This is a new day. I will make a new pact to never speak again. I am in this meeting. I am also in a small room. dim. alone. crying with my whole body. screaming. eyes squeezing, mouth stretching. Will I ever breathe in again? I am also in an attic space. complete dark. hot. soft cushion. I am curled and silent--almost sleeping. small scratching sounds all around me...the smell of hot plywood. All I want to do is sleep. I am tired of this world. When I sleep, some wonderful perception of myself becomes myself. I am thin. I am beautiful. My hair is slick. I am in a blue dress. The wind is blowing. I breathe in. I have horrible adventures. I am free.
These people are laughing now. I am vowing to never laugh again. Why didn't anyone tell me I am so ugly? I gnash my teeth. Is this hell? Maybe the rapture will only take babies. Maybe hell is a world without babies. I will never have my own. I know it. It is how I will be punished for what I've done. He will know that's the reason. He will hate me even more.
What am I worth? Nothing.
What am I good at? Nothing.
What have I done with my 25 years? ruined lives. failed at my work. I have lied. I have disappointed everyone.
All I want is to go to sleep. Please let me go to sleep. I just want to sleep.