Maybe all I want is to speak and be heard.

Everyone speaks past me--around me.

I speak to myself.

How are you, Isabella?
I am broken.
Well. That's a stupid thing to say.
I know.
How did you feel when the student stopped listening to you and began a conversation with a friend.
I felt alone.
Do you often feel alone?
Yes.
When?
I feel most alone when I am looked upon by the world.
What kind of an answer is that?
A small one.
Tell me what you want?
I want you to love me.
Why would I love you?
Because you're the only one who can.
I feel powerful.
I hate you.
I hate you back.
Remember playing baseball in those sand dunes that summer?
Yes, we all got spurs in our feet.
Yes. It didn't work.
Remember eating the shark?
Yes.
Remember the flavor?
Yes. I remember exactly how it tasted. I remember the heat coming off of my body. I remember feeling very clean and very happy.
Is that the way you want to feel?
More than anything. Will you help me?
No.
I wish I could fly.
You're ridiculous. You waste time with this imagination. Why can't you just be in reality and be satisfied.
I don't know how.
Learn.
I don't know how.
Everyone knows there's something not right with you. That's why they talk to you the way they do.
I want to be right. I want to do something well. I want to care about something.
Do you care about me?
No, but I want you to love me.

I am frightened.

Everything will change.

Everything but my fright.

Thoughts are swirling around me. I can't see anything but loneliness and worry. Every glimpse I get of his face, every touch, I can't stop whispering, "I will miss you when you go away."

What is the maximum range? How far away can he go before I die? How far into the sky can he fly before I am pulled up, snapped, and smashed? Can I stand it? Will the two parts of me grow louder and louder? Will I know how to speak to him when he returns? Will I be afraid of him? Will he despise me?

I am simple. I am weak. I am human. I am married to a demigod.

I told a lie last night.

I can't stand this. I am in torment. I can't interact with people without studying them so closely that they are sure to hurt me. I watch their bodies. Hands. Mouths. Eyes. I know what they're thinking.

I hold a little piece of my heart out to every person I speak to. I only want them to be pleased to have spoken to me.

My husband says I'm too open with people. He says that's why people think I'm weird.

I am tearful.

I am only a child.

At least once a month I decide that I will never speak again. To never hear my own voice again would be my greatest accomplishment.

I am re-imagining my life without my voice.
I am silent on my grandfather's home videos. I only point to the flower. I do not say "It's a hibiscus."
I never hold my sister by her shoulders and scream into her.
I never tell my mother that I love her.
I never sit on the front porch and cry out to God.

Everything that is good can be done without words--loving, eating, walking about with no guilt or shame...

Player Piano

If I admire or miss a person, I imagine that I am playing the piano. The person is nearby and is impressed. The person loves me because I am playing the piano so well. I am always wearing a beautiful dress.

It is a daily dream. Different people. Faraway people. People who do not remember me.

Somehow, if they could only hear me play, I would be forgiven for whatever I have done to make them go away.

If I could wear a beautiful dress...

Departmental Meeting

Scanners are moving.
Computers are moving.
Snafu.
Mystified.
Prayer Meeting.
Petting Zoo.

Empty.

"There's nothing threatening controlling me."

--The Shins on Phantom Limb "Nothing At All"

What if...

What if I'm doing so well--singing blue skies--just so failure will hurt more?

How will I pay for my sins? I have a husband. I have a best friend. I have a treasured child in my life. A true brother. A loving father. These five people mean more to me than anything. Will my sins hurt them? Is that how it works?

Crazy Roy says some people lose a child because of their sins or get sick. He says that we should all be glad that we have our own cross and not someone else's.

I wish I knew what to expect.

But that would be cheating. I would get better health insurance. I wouldn't have kids if they were going to die.

The sins of the fathers.

Does it work that way with mothers, too? Will I pay for my grandmother's sins? Will I know? Will my child pay for the destruction my mother has caused?

I can see it in my mind. She is holding the child. She is smiling, almost crying. She is pleased. Finally, I have done something worthwhile. I have birthed a perfect curve of flesh to lie on a cold stone and be sacrificed for her lies.

There will be no one to pay for my sins. I will do it myself.