More Than Words Can Say

I'm not going to try to convey
the simple facts that blister along
my tongue, whispers along the shell of my ears
and try to make themselves known
to you.
For I know none of it will be understood,
devoured, swallowed, digested,
allowed full comprehension to break free
from the muddied skin of a half-rate poet.
Because
I love you more than words can say
and have no idea how
to phrase it.

Regional Library

The sound of the early autumn traffic came floating through the window. She curled up into a ball beneath her blankets and stuffed the pillow over her head. The small room was cramped, with clothes in piles on the floor and boxes shoved under the bed. She’d been living in the dorms for almost three weeks now, but she hadn’t made any effort to unpack. She didn’t want to make her moving seen as real. She’d buried her books in the back of the closet, but they were spilling out the door and onto the floor. It hurt too much to look at them, and she couldn’t bring herself to put them on the shelves that boxed her room in around her.
The books reminded her of him.
She rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was after midnight and she had an early lecture in the morning, but she couldn’t fall asleep. She’d been moving through the past few weeks like a zombie. She took notes perfectly, did all her work with a deadly precision, but once she ran out of things to do, she went back to bed even though she knew she wouldn’t fall asleep.
She hadn’t even gone to visit the library yet. That was a thing she’d promised to make her first priority once she arrived on campus. She couldn’t even hear the word without remembering what had happened the last time she’d been in one.
The memories flooded her in a haze of fog. With a sob, she buried her face in the mattress, hoping to muffle the sound of her crying. She wanted to forget, let everything be washed away like the grime on her body as she stood in one of the dorm showers. She just let the water run over and down her skin as she stood there like a corpse.
She’d given up ever since he left her.

The sun was hot as it burned into her hair and skin, warming her body. She squeezed his hand ever so slightly and felt him squeeze her back. His hand was limp in hers, though. As if he was performing a routine action he’d gotten tired of.
They walked down the street, almost wading through the summer haze. It stuck to her skin and dampened her clothes. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes with her free hand. She’d thought about cutting it before, but he liked long hair, so she left it alone.
They walked along the sidewalk, following the street going toward the mall. Then they turned right and headed for the back doors. He pulled her out of the way as a car drove past them through the parking lot. She looked up at him and smiled, but he didn’t notice.
She pushed down the nagging feeling in her and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just hot.”
“It’s hotter in Arizona,” he said, “I emailed my advisor yesterday, and she said it was a hundred and ten degrees.” She felt the words sting her like a slap in the face.
She smiled to hid the bitterness, ducking under the overhanging cover before the entrance
The doors came to life with a soft metallic hum, opening slowly. They felt the chill of the air conditioning wash over them. She heard her flip-flops hit the tile floor over and over again, creating a slapping sound announcing her presence. His shoes made no noise, though. It was almost as if she was walking alone. If she hadn’t felt his hand in hers, she would have really thought so.
They rounded the corner, turning left. They passed all the shops around them, not caring to stop. She took note of them all. The sale that the clothing store was having for jeans, the lunch special at the restaurant, the frantic mother trying to keep her child from falling into the pond.
She stopped him at the pond and pulled her wallet out of her purse.
“You know you’re not supposed to throw coins into there,” he said. “It kills the fish.”
“I know,” she said, and with one movement, she emptied all her change into the water.
“What the hell did you do that for? That was about five dollars, there.”
“It’s fine,” she said. It’s not worth it, though, she thought. No amount of spare change could pay off the inevitable and keep it from coming. She was praying, though. Praying for the world to end along with that moment, so it would be the last thing she remembered.
He pulled her into the bookstore and she watched him conversing with the clerk about the latest releases. She wanted to go check the new display, but she didn’t want to let go of his hand. She looked around the store, taking in all the details as if it was her first time there. The way the shelves were laid out in a warm square pattern. The color of the false wood floor, and how it made your footsteps echo. The tables in front of the cash register with the remaindered thirty percent off titles on them. The racks of magazines on the side wall. She loved this store, but the air felt painful now.
She slowly pulled him out of his conversation, laughing along with the jokes between him and the clerk. She crouched down on her knees, still never letting go of his hand. She began to pull books off the shelves, skimming over the reviews on the back.
She chose one at random, although she was sure she’d read it at some point. They then walked over to the counter and she paid for the book. The clerk put it in a green plastic bag with the store’s logo printed on it, and with her receipt stuck in between the pages.
They walked down the hall to the sign announcing the Regional Library. She pulled a book out of her purse and left it on the check-in counter. A librarian came over, and she heard the beeping of the machines as the book was scanned back into the system.
She started over to the shelves that held all the books on hold, but he steered her in another direction. He took her past the check-out counters, the information desk, the tables where people worked, and through the shelves of non-fiction books.
The numbered shelves flashed by her eyes, but he continued to pull her forward, his grip on her hand tight. They left the stacks of books and entered a small space at the back of the library. A cliché sign with the legend ‘Teen Scene’ hung down from the ceiling in an attempt to make teenagers believe that reading was cool, the rotating shelves full of paperback books below it. On the wall were metal racks with books propped up for display.
She moved to go look at the new releases set out front to promote them, but his grip on her tightened and she couldn’t move.
“Let’s sit,” he said. His voice was hoarse. She could feel the sweat on his hand.
“What?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Let’s sit,” he repeated, and she could hear the hollow echo in his voice. The world swam before her eyes. She had to concentrate to keep from collapsing.
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“Alright,” he said. “You can stand.” He sounded like he was parenting her. A slow, soft buzzing began in her ears.
“Not that,” she yelled, and she felt the pressure before she realized what happened. His hand was pressed over her mouth, blocking off her scream. She could hear the general chorus of hushing sounds and people telling her to be quiet, but all she could focus on was his face.
In his eyes, she could see her reflection, and it made her want to cry. She looked panicked, her coloring reversed, white where her cheeks were normally pink. His eyes were glazed over, like they were a shield, trying to keep the pain from reaching him.
“I don’t want to,” she mumbled from under his hand. “Please… no…” Her voice trailed off as she bit down on her tongue to keep herself from crying.
“Don’t do this,” he moaned. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. “We can still keep going.” She was aware of the tears running down her cheeks as she babbled on and on, trying to get him to agree with her.
“We can’t,” he whispered. “We’ll be graduating in a few weeks.”
“So we’ll just have a long-distance relationship,” she laughed shakily. “Lots of people do. They all work out fine.”
“This won’t work out, though,” he said. “You’re going to Vancouver and I’m going to Arizona. We can’t keep going, pretending that everything is fine.”
She watched his mouth move, but she couldn’t hear the words. He was clarifying what she’d been trying to ignore for the past few weeks. The feeling of distance that had been growing slowly in the back of her mind. The feelings between them had been stretching thin, and at that moment, she finally felt them snap.
She felt his fingers slowly unlink themselves from hers. Her hand dropped to her side, no longer suspended by his.
She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed before she realized that he wasn’t in front of her anymore. She could see his back retreating away from her, and she watched as he stopped before the hold shelves to see if he had books to pick up.
She dropped to the ground with a broken sob stuck in her throat. She looked around for some support, crawling over to the plush chairs beside her.
They were too low to the ground for her to hide under them like she wanted to. She could just imagine it. She’d seen it a million times. The way his hands moved, and how he positioned his body as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it and handed the clerk his card. The way he leaned against the counter while waiting for his books. The way he tucked them under his arm after pulling out the receipt, reading it over and then recycling it.
She could imagine this time his body tensing with pain, him tearing the receipt and tossing it in the trash. She hoped he felt this pain as strongly as her but she had no way of telling. She wasn’t there to smile at him and take his hand like always as he walked out the double doors. He wasn’t there to wipe away her tears as she cried.
It was over.

She sat up in bed in her dorm room and was still. The air was colder than before. It had started to rain, a curtain of water hitting the window and sliding down onto the sill.
Tears were drying on her cheeks, and she still felt the hollow pain of something having been torn out of her. It was duller than it had felt before though.
The clock read six in the morning, but she didn’t feel like she had slept at all. She slid out of bed and let her feet touch the floor gently. She readjusted her shirt and bent down to pick up the books on the floor. She slid them into the empty shelves, creating a thudding rhythm as they hit the wall hard.
She grabbed the laundry basket from under her bed and piled the dirty clothes into it. She reached deep into the closet and pulled out a new towel. Then she grabbed hold of the small bag that she carried her shampoo and soap, and she bolted out the door.
She felt the door slam back into the frame and heard the click as she turned the key in the lock. She was running down the hall, skidding to a stop before the bathroom door. She pushed it open and turned the corner, pushing the shower stall door open and hiding behind it.
The door locked as she slid the bolt. Her towel and bag hit the floor with a thud. There was a scuffle as she fought with her clothes while trying to take them off.
The hot water hit her with a blast, then ran down her skin, burning her. She was moving fast, though, as she scrubbed the shampoo into her hair and soaped her body hard.
After she was done showering, she tried to dry her hair with her towel, even though it was soaked. She dumped the shampoo bottles and soap onto her bag, wrapped the towel around it, and headed back to her room.
She didn’t know what time the library opened, but she needed to find out.

no longer sleeping

i am still dreaming,
white clouds stretched
along the red of my tongue
as i bite, swallow
and choke back the terror
of this day.

i am waiting for you to hurt me.

though,
i can break myself easily
in the time before you arrive,
tighten my fingers across my neck,
scrape my nails down the curve of my spine,
twist the vertebrae clockwards
with a snap
and a small whisper of a scream,

like a child in the black velvet
of the night, when I awaken,
heart thudding as the blood
pools within my cheeks,
my body heavy as
I could each beat of each second
until i am no longer

sleeping.

Lotus

I could hear them fighting down below. The force of the blows on the walls traveled through the house. The house never talked, because the only time it opened its mouth was to scream. Its eyes never left you, even after you were gone. The five little birds that had come before me had disappeared years ago, and they left a deafening silence meant to be filled by happiness. Yoselin was first to go. She couldn’t stand the feelings she’d been drowning in as the hands of the house wrapped around her neck.
I lay alongside the wall, my back on the floor. I could feel the hands brush along my body, fingering the paint flaking off my skin and clothes. I brushed them off, ignoring their protests. I didn’t care about them any more. They’d lost their hold on me over the years I’d been with you. Now, I was waiting, although I wasn’t sure what for. I think I was waiting for you, but I was scared that you wouldn’t come.
Maybe that’s why I’d taken my fury and directed it against the room. I beat the walls and pounded the door, leaving marks and stains from my hands when they began to openly bleed.

The bed was next. I hunted through the dresser drawers until I found the knife. The blade was perfect, pretty and personal, deadly in the arch from the handle to the point and the weight it carried in my palms. I gripped the handle and let it sink into the mattress. I hacked away, the stuffing spilling over onto the floor, as if by massacring my bed, I could cut away the ugly parts within me.
The balance in my mind tipped, and I fell off the scales. When I awoke, it was dark. That was the end of day one. The rest of the week was a blur. Food arrived at the door twice a day, and through the open space, I could see Nicole’s face twisted with some strange emotion. The door remained locked except for those brief intervals of time. The food I was given remained untouched. I just sat against the wall, day in and day out like a broken doll, unable to move.
On day three, a set of oil paints with brushes arrived instead of dinner. On day four, I picked them up. I suppose that was when I achieved a type of mental clarity. From then on, I gave up sleep. My room became a hell-like jungle with flowers blooming on the walls. I painted the lotus again and again, its sizes varying from small to large. I guess I was trying to find a non-painful way to bind myself to you. The knife lay forgotten on the corpse of the mattress.
I painted words across the floor, the walls and ceiling. Paint crinkled and cracked as I moved my arms after it had dried onto my skin. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. I repeated those words over and over, like a spell.
I waited for the reaper to take me as a kind of punishment for everything I’d done. I gave up hope of being rescued by you. In my mind, it was a realistic fantasy.

On the seventh night, I ran out of paints and gave up my soul to the devil. I always thought that you were an angel, so in my delirious stupor, it was no surprise that you appeared in my room through the balcony doors. Maybe it didn’t seem quite real, because the moment you saw me, you began cursing. That’s something angels don’t usually do.
You picked me up and swung me down onto the ruined bed despite my protests. Maybe I fell asleep after that, or I fell unconscious from hunger and lack of water. I heard a car door slam, although I didn’t see anything. You were talking with a woman, your voices low enough for me to catch only random words. Suicide, food, school, tickets, money, address. All words leading to an escape.
The woman said thank you as I felt the car begin to move, and I thought I saw Nicole watching us as you drove away from the house. You told me to sleep, and I did.
That moment went on forever as the car slowly headed off to its destination. I felt safe with you, despite the fact that I didn’t know where we were going.

People say that heaven is full of flowers. I think that’s wrong. For hell is a garden, and its flowers bloom madly during the night. In the center, on a hill, sits a house. When you walk down the halls, you can hear ghosts whispering about the devil that haunts the building. The devil locked me in that room to pay for the sins I’ve committed. One can never fully escape from hell, though, and I’ll always pay for what I’ve done. I ripped the lotus from the walls and spread the petals across my face, crushing them into me.

The Egg Part III: Scrambled

She looked up from her table. The bells chimed. He pushed open the door.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” He pulled the chair across from her out and sat down. She smiled and he smiled. Then both of them laughed.
The waiter walked over and she asked for more coffee. He nodded to make it two. The waiter left and then came back with the drinks. She tore the lid off a container of cream and he added sugar. She then grabbed a spoon and began to stir, almost violently. He just let his cup sit there.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting married? Everyone is talking about it.”
“What?”
He felt like smiling, but he lacked the strength to move his facial muscles. She sat there, looking calm and composed like always. Neither of them knew how or when, but slowly, the tears began to fall.
She was crying silently as the tears rolled down her face and clung to the hair cascading down her shoulders. Her makeup began to run as it smudged and mingled with her tears, creating patterns as it dribbled down her cheeks.
He ran his fingers through his hair, catching hold and tearing through the tangles, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. They sat there awkwardly.
All outside the café, it continued to rain, an attempt to drown out the sirens, the traffic and the voices as the neon signs blazed weakly in the gray.
Around them, the air was warm and stuffy, for the heat in the café was turned far too high. The potted plants drew flies, their soft buzz noticeable over the clanking of the silverware.
Neither of them said anything.
Slowly, once the tears had dried, she began to move, gathering her purse and swinging it up over her shoulder. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his briefcase and followed her out the door.
The bells chimed. “Thank you for coming,” floated above the traffic noise on the street.
They were holding hands as they walked down and across the road. It was the only form of relief they’d been given. The ability to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She wasn’t going to say it and neither would he. It was too delicate and strong a chain that was wrapped around them. Even though they both thought that the two of them should have been one person or had no relation at all. Then they would have been on the same playing field as everyone else at least.
God’s a bastard, though. It was still raining as they left.

The Egg Part II: Whites

He was late and was running. The rain was still trickling down and clinging against him in its desperate attempt to assimilate into his skin. The city around him was grey, as the cement slowly leeched away from the ground and started to surround him. It was raining like the heavens were dying, as the sky slowly started to slide and tilt down toward the earth in its broken realization of disintegration.
He looked a mess on the outside, water dripping down into his eyes, tie flapping as her ran, briefcase swinging at his side. On the inside, he was a child. He would play around with people and the words they spoke in a reluctant from of exercise.
The water rose up as the cars dragged their wheels through the puddles, splashing those who were in the vicinity. He was soaked, and yet still completely fashionable in a suit as always.
He kept sneaking glances of hidden crevasses as he ran past them. It was a boy’s game to imagine what treasure could be found hidden around you. He was still a boy, and he exploited that and the freedom it came with. It was a dream to laugh wildly and not care what people thought
There’s always art built in around the body and its surroundings. The sound of traffic as it bounces and curves around the hollow shape of the ears, and its affect on the sense of danger.
He hated the boundaries he was confined to by living. The unspoken rules as they wedged themselves deep into the skin and stuck like a rash that would never leave. He smiled, for she was always telling him that’s why he could never grow up.
He couldn’t though. Not while something sharp was stabbing him in the heart. He bit down and could taste blood. That’s all he was ever eating now, just the blood produced from rage as it overtook him.
He could see the café now.

The Egg Part I: Yolk

She sat there at the table in the café, her coffee untouched, slightly off side of her elbows where they were perched on the table as she watched the world through the window. The people outside were always running, even more so today due to the rain. Recently, it always seemed to be raining, as if God couldn’t stop crying. She almost felt like letting tears fall as well, but she lacked the willpower to muster enough emotion.
On the outside, she looked refined and polished. On the inside, she was dead. She hummed like a well-oiled machine as she waited.
The inside of the world surrounding her was warm, with its usual abundance of potted plants and empty dishes, abandoned by people as they, too, began to run to some unknown destination. The atmosphere was sunny, like a comforting memory as it enveloped its dreamers, creating a particular state of mind that welcomed the consumption of it.
She was a dreamer, as she sat there admiring the soft reflection of her face. A dull, washed-out version of herself through the windows. Her colouring was dark and pale, the two shades trying to match her personality but failing to make an impact. She could see the fine spider-like lines as they traced the edges of her skin, forming the gentle movement that was her face.
She smiled softly. She laughed quietly. Still, she didn’t touch her coffee, and eventually the waiter asked if she was done with it. She told him to leave it, and so he did. Slowly, she began to rip the sugar packets apart and dump them into the liquid, creating a sugary sludge that she stirred it with a spoon.
Then she began to drink.
She loved her face and hated her body. For they were wrong in a way that was right, for it didn’t seem to match him. However, society accepted this relation the two of them had. Society accepted it, yet would not allow her that one pleasure.
She finished the drink and set the cup down with a thud.
She wished that she’d been born as part of him, that she’d been born as his heart. Because then she could always stay with him.