I recreate what goes on so many times in my head; I step backwards, replaying what I did to see if it was right or not.
This is my surprise. a turnabout of events, a moment the scryers didn’t predict. Ultimatums don’t exist for me, except in split moments. Yet the moments cease to end, giving ultimatums clauses that loop around with all the grace of mice scrambling on high wires in a french circus. As the trained animals go to work, the audience eats funnel cake with strawberry sauce, or pączek-fried donuts, and the dignity in the situation is askew, even absurd.
I am my own best lawyer but the problem is that I am also my own best prosecutor.
“aw ga-hod, luk @ what she’s wearing!” “oh, pul-leez!” “you’re one 2 tok” “you & whose ARMY?!” “is that my daisy-chain Gucci purslette with a matching barf drawer? – you bitch!” “your slusband stole my girlfriend!” “oh_u_whore_u_whore!” (repeat if nec.,)
I take out my blue t-mobile phone and curse through the address book rapidly. It’s Parker. I need to contact him. He’s sort of my on and off boyfriend but not putting labels on things has put a strain over our connection. In over two years, we’ve gone from attempting a normal relationship to outright chaos. It probably didn’t help things that when I was in pain, he would bring me drugs. I was just as much to blame for taking them as he was for bringing them to me, but I was in a weak place, and I didn’t want to realize how unstable he was at the time.
His mom, who must be incredibly patient to put up with a son like Parker- is on the phone. He does not call me back. I’m not a patient person so I take the last bus out there. He is always asking me to go out there, after all. This puts things into a precarious situation as I will either be stuck after midnight on a bus stop all night or have to find a way to get to his place. I don’t drive, and the walk to his parents house is long and I don’t know it in the dark.
It turns out I have erased his cell from my phone so if his land-line is blocked, I will not get through. I figure that if he doesn’t want me to call, he would have turned the phone off the hook. I’m always calling at odd hours, waking his parents up, despite the fact that his mom has Lupus and gets up every morning at 6 am. But Parker and I, neither of us have a schedule, and we are both nocturnal people. When I am near the bus stop, his car drives up. Dark green. A lucky color.
I do not look at him or speak during the entire ride. All I know is that I had these sentences in me and now they will not come out. Words won’t make it to my mouth. In the end, all I can do is silently cry. I hide it but three hours later snot is dripping everywhere in my sleeves and when I am sitting next to him on a bed he can’t help but hear my breath constricting. It’s like I’m trying to kill myself by withholding my own breathing. When he touches me with his subdued calm, it feels like a cure but it makes more tears come out so I fight myself. I sound like some horse neighing as it drowns underwater. And then the lust is unquenchable and animalistic. After Parker and I finally make love, I’m frightened.
I curse at myself,
make me stop crying, make me stop being so unquenchable. I don’t necessarily want the wish answered, just heard.
I curse this world’s owner, who I imagine hears everything the way we hear it, sees everything the way we see it, but in a way where there are no limits. Time is frozen and sounds come all at once. Concepts we can’t imagine and have no place for in speech exist for this owner. What laws can this owner follow?
Nobody helps me stop.
I try begging myself, but not even hitting, or thinking about random things help. I try counting numbers- but everything I do is to stop the onslaught of hungry, huge- and yet precise- tears. They are precise because the amount of tears coincides perfectly in accordance with the strife in the words Parker doles out. They echo relentlessly on playback and delay in my own inner chambers. Sadly, I cannot cheat the number. I’ve tried but I cannot escape what comes out. The irony is not lost on me that emotion itself is supposedly imprecise. This must be why language, with Parker and I, has become a festering wound, the grounds for horror in our relationship.
How he could have a photographic memory and be this closed a trap has always startled me. Did the drugs he took for seven years before meeting me loosen the clasps on his tightly held trap clap?
Maybe it’s because he remembers that he can’t handle life. So he became this way in a reaction against the stimuli. He had chess, but he didn’t have music like me, or an unflinching look at screaming fights and tragedy, the way I did early on.
I’m gifted with an extreme sensitivity to loud noises, and to the “tone” in which something is said. The worst is when, in fighting an emptiness, somebody loses themselves to a tone which errs constantly on the side of sounding like deranged road rage multiplied by ugliness at its most pure. Alone, it remains unaware of just how ugly it is.
Here’s another thing: I have never learned restraint. No parent taught that course. Manipulation was something my sister did on occasion that confused me, and words in our house were like slaps leaving welts that I desperately sought to understand. Then I’d be kissed goodnight. After the kisses, my mother put a remove a mile deep between us, and then crossed it only on her terms alone, like when she wanted to read a passage from my diary. She justified it to me by saying I would have hidden it in a better spot if I didn’t want her to get to it.