Julia Mounsey '13
I love creaking, but I love pots and pans especially. You go to bed and CLANG! The kitchen is full of me! I have so many hands. I love my hands, but I love your feet more, your tired footsteps down the stairs, your lovely head full of my hands, full of my pots and pans. You always smile. I love creaking, and I love your sheets. I pull them off to watch you shiver. I have so many hands, but no fingerprints mind you. I’ll never leave a mark, I love you too much for that.
Cold rushes in so fast it becomes hot, down my throat like a hand and I feel hoarse, I feel hoarse, I feel hoarse. Can you see me? You can’t see me. You can’t see me because there are fifty of me! There are fifty of me and then another fifty, and if you really saw me you’d be so scared that the cold would rush in hot like a hand made of ice through your throat all the way down to your belly and you’d be DEAD! Who’s pulling your curtains? Your shoes? Are they damp? Who is it? It’s me, all of me! All fifty of me!
You’re mine, darling. You’re all mine, darling. I pull all the books off the shelf with my breath because you’re mine, darling. Look! There! My hands tickling your doorframe. Did you see them? You’re mine, darling. And I’ll break your eggs and chew up your floorboards until you know it. I’ll suck at your curtains and walk up your windows and push ever so slightly against the bottom of your mattress while you sleep, until you’re down on all fours with your heart on your tongue, laughing, saying you love me.
I lived in your chest for three years. I brought you warmth when you didn’t want it. I crawled. Climbed you from the inside. Rubbed your heart the wrong way. It was mine. I lived there. I brought you warmth, brought you to your knees when you didn’t want it. I lived on your ceiling for three years. Kept still while you fought for sleep. Kept you still while you watched me, knowing me. Kept you, because you’re mine.
I don’t mind being a nightmare, as long as I can be yours!! Do you remember me? I found you in your bed. Do you remember my fingers? The stain? The tapping? I found you in your bed, pinned you there with my fingernails. Do you remember your heart beating? Broke through your chest, unearthed like a vegetable. And the stain when you woke up. I left it for you. No, I don’t mind being your nightmare.
You are soft. You are my cushion. I take my teeth out one by one. I take my teeth out one by one and push them into you. First the shoulder. I trace a circle with the sharp end, then push and it goes in easy. You break. Like cutting thread. I make a line of teeth across your shoulders, a collar, my little bones. I break you. It’s not personal. Skin is soft and sweet. It begs me to. Down on all fours, mouth dripping, chest heaving, it begs me to.
I had a question on every finger tip. They were oily and I covered you in them, and for that I am sorry. I am sorry I took all of your answers and forgot to leave you any. And I am sorry you had to live with my prints on your skin. But I wanted you to understand that you looked beautiful under my hands. I know it hurt to have my palms there but I wanted you to know that you looked beautiful with my thumbprint on your face, and my lifeline across your throat.
All of my pain has become fruit. My blood’s turned sweet. See here? A blueberry. And here: hearts become grapefruit. Pain goes sweet, then rots, because pain never goes away. The smell stays on your clothes forever. You know that smell? Thick and full of sugar. An apple split open on the asphalt like last summer. It’s an apple split open on the asphalt boiling last summer. Almost delicious, because sweet things always rot.
Will you? Won’t you? Haven’t been looked at for so long. Never get looked at. I’ve forgotten my hands. Left them somewhere. Can’t remember where. Can you spare a glance? A sniff in my direction? A laugh, at the very least. An eyebrow, maybe two. A reach would make me soar. A reach, not a touch, there is no touch, there is no touch, but a reach would do the same. Will you? Won’t you?
Life is over. Love is over. Family is over. House is over. Home is over. Book is over. Shoe is over. Bed is over. Touch is over. Sex is over. Handshake is over. War is over. Kitchen is over. Friend is over. Train is over. Sitting is over. Running is over. Grass is over. Money is over. Food is over. Singing is over. Yours is over. Mine is over. Yours is over. Mine is over. I am not ready.
About the Author: Julia is from New York City and wants to be a playwright, probably. She really likes Patti Smith.