A March of Marys, day five
A new life and new ghosts. New dirty traces that I would design myself.
It is Day 5 of A March of Marys. I know I don’t usually post this often so I hope your inbox is not feeling overwhelmed. I am taking a chance and doing a thing and I thank you for doing it with me. Check out the previous posts in this serialization here.
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You look at me and say, 'What if I were magic.'
My sheets are crumpled and covered in a variety of furs and I can smell the onion on my skin from last night’s pasta. I was feeling comfortable.
Your hair is in that in-between stage where it’s not long or short but awkward and winter is coming which is why you’re growing it out. I want to reach out and touch the ends like the fringe on a decorative throw blanket, but I feel stuck where I am next to the pillow, too far from you at the foot of the bed.
'What do you mean by ‘magic,’' I ask.
I think of that Heart song and smirk a little, but then feel foolish and frown.
'Like, what if I just snapped my fingers and I disappeared.'
There’s that fuzziness of light that happens just around my sinuses and I try to hold it back.
'What about your dog.'
'He would disappear with me. I’d snap my fingers and we would both disappear, but all my stuff would still be here.'
My body stings like a sneeze that I can’t get out. I look at the wall. I look at the poster on my wall. I think about Law & Order, the television show, and I think about the illustration of Goren and Eames with the shoe fetish killer. Why do her legs stop suddenly. Why did the show stop suddenly.
'And then I would come back later to get my stuff.'
I look at you and I know that you are joking, but I feel like this is grade school again and I’m the one not in on the joke again. I don’t even know what you’re doing with me.
I mean, I know what you’re doing, but I wonder if you can tell how I’m feeling and if I told you would it be just another thing you have to worry about when you talk to me, like there are certain things I don’t want to hear about like gossip and made up stories about your ex-girlfriends and descriptions of anything covered with bumps or holes because it activates my trypophobia and makes me feel itchy all over until I start thinking about steel beams and placid lakes. Right now I am thinking of a smooth water surface but I still want to creep out of my skin. I look at you and you’re looking down. It’s like I set myself up for this. It’s never the one I want. I never wait for the one I want.
I don’t know what you’re thinking, maybe something you need to, but I wonder if you are looking at what I’m trying to keep from happening on my face. What is the point of me trying really hard not to make a scene in my bedroom.
I stand up and grab my towel, start walking towards the bathroom.
‘Where are you going,’ you say, stand up.
'I’m taking a shower.'
Inside the stall hot water runs over and numbs me. My nose runs leaky clear fluid and I let it dribble down my chest like it’s cleaning me. I open my mouth and hear myself whimper a little bit, feeling sorry and self conscious for doing this. Why am I doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
What if I was magic. What if I wasn’t here. What if neither of us were.
If I was magic I would disappear and would I take you with me. Should I take you with me. Would it be right to just leave you there. Would I disappear from this place and never come back, start a new life somewhere. A new life and new ghosts. New dirty traces that I would design myself. Would I go somewhere very far away, somewhere dry and hot, somewhere that doesn’t get a wifi signal. If I were magic I would disappear and bring my cat, but I would leave the stuff. Fuck the stuff.
I see the colors of your clothes through the frosted glass. You’re coming in, joining me. Why are you here. I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t want you to see me like this because I know it’s stupid, but I came in here to cry because I think I needed it. I think about everything too much, and I’m embarrassed and this is why I’m the freak in my family, why I feel ganged up on around the holidays, because I take some little thing to heart and I can’t fucking stop it. It’s my worst quality. I mean, it gets me in trouble with people sometimes.
You tell me you understand. You tell me you knew something was wrong. You tell me that you are the freak in your family too. You kiss my shoulders and face and tell me I’m beautiful. The one time you tell me I am beautiful.
You tell me I never have to worry about telling you how I feel. Oh, really. You turn me around and fuck me standing in the shower stall and tell me I’m sexy. Oh, really.
If I was magic I would never feel like a chump. I would never be a chump. If I was magic this water would be blood and I would be bathing like the gods in everything I love.
Missed yesterday’s post? You can read it here.