Thursday Brunch, a small table just left of the opening doors to the cafe. Your friend was late by 15 minutes, yet you remembered just how they liked their drinks. You have forgotten yourself once more, what a shame.

“…”

I have yet to learn how to be quiet. Or rather, when given moments to announce bitter emotions or too much space has existed between the conversation of those in front of me, the urge to belittle the wrinkles near my eyes, insult the form of my body, degrade my speech, is past perfunctory, it is expected.

I perform in the shower, a certain nod over the shoulder or head tilt to a point I know covers what the mirror can’t, and once again I allow my body to overshare, to conduct its own persecution. I gather the pieces of skin less valuable and pull till red and loose, so if I must allow laughter to befall this body, it is me who has initiated it. Melancholy strums from the phone hidden beneath towels and I must gather their grief to understand how I know mine, but my sadness never held the attitude of ‘correct,’ so the soap must burn and scratch and tear until hopefully my body knows the right way to grieve – scared and starving.

I knew the bed too intimately, which means, I grasped at its softness and learned of its warmth, but I still never thought long enough to look underneath and read the tags littered at the bottom. Discovery rested in the bi-annual practice of turning the mattress around till I was given a new space to re-learn. For days, I am left contemplating how little warmth you leave me.

Could I profess a suitable amount of anguish? It might not matter, it seems I have already told you before. Maybe you had forgotten, or I simply wanted you to know, but either way when you sit in front of me and there are two cups between us, while yours is nearing its end and mine have only found needed warmth to purple fingertips, might you not question it. Might we find ourselves here next week, as the warmth spreads to your heart and I cover my shaky hands.

The papers are overflowing and I am sick. Sick, sick, sick. The curve of white porcelain comforts exhaustion as fingers push past the resistance to relief. Hands, other than my own, race across closed doors, leaving behind utensils and empty pens, to slide down the wall with me. They mock the untouched corner near the bathroom sink, a mistake unknowing and wholly alive. It is only then, when the toilet settles and the shower drain slows in its movements, do I contemplate the life of the walls around me. Who cared enough to hold them, fill them with bleak colors, furnished till suitable. It’s functional, but damaged; covered and touched. My hands have only furthered this violation.

I am shaking once more, I declare this my condition to love, the possibility that if such an occasion were to arise, I could finally step up. I love you or I possibly could and I notice the blood pooling at our hands, but mine are stained and dripping wet, must you always wash yours off? You always have a safe pair of hands.

Passion grows embers barely pulsing, announcing its final breath, must it resemble its itch to gulp the lack of oxygen, I steadily feel. Death only comes to join the simple exhaustion of delicate air, pausing at the table beside me, a head pushed down admiring the unused matches scattered across the wood. He seizes the one closest to me, a countdown to his final collection.

I am careful, so I dream. I paint points of intersection, dissect the old attic of a grandmother never held and hope the passing of stuffed animals from mother to daughter would suffice. It is important to have a routine, you must announce your presence but do so causually, a small nod or smile is pertinent, but don’t overdo it, the shock of such happiness can blind, or annoy, it is relevant to know who you are speaking to.

Have a person of special importance peel an orange for you. Make sure you are in love with them before they dig in — it is messier when you can remember their kisses, a special kind of rich you desire in chocolate. Never eat an orange after that, or condemn the fruit to your sharpest knife, lest you learn what their hands felt when they cared for you.

You allow certain moments of desire to be dreamed of with long showers, meditation, a handful of vitamins, someone’s hand wrapped around your waist, maybe you would feel full then of powdered supplements and a warmth you can only copy on clothes warmed twice. You cannot let your body feel such a touch, it is only when you are complicit in your singularity, war-torn and saturated, can the emergence of possibility reach its climax.

Understand you are a daughter, someone’s child, so you have murdered your own childhood. You will wield the knife, in secret, when the blood tricked from your stomach to your cunt. You become your mother, let her demean and cradle your emotions, coddle resentment and gauge your anger; you are a woman now, keep the shirt loose and the joy brief. Your last name will only be worthy enough of middles, be smart.

Tell every one of your grief. Bake it into pies, sew into hand-me-down clothes your daughter is to wear, don’t feel scared to leave behind a note shaming all you can not hide. Write. Everywhere. On your shower walls, restaurant menus, an old bus pass, the length of your throat. Remember if you are to scream, such words are to make you known. Be courteous to the ears around you.

“…”

“…”

“…”

I am afraid I have spoken out of turn, was I too loud? I apologize for the inconvience, the exhaustion must weight heavy for you tonight. It is all dust now, nothing two hands can’t dispose of.

“…”

“…”

Would you like another cup of tea?