It’s my Deepest Darkest Secret: Part 2

Jul 30, 2020, 06:02 PM
‘Wait. Don’t tell me. You have a plan, don’t you? Tell me, my love, what are you going to do about the sky? Will you ever look up again? I’m not a baby. You’re not my mommy. I will not worship any part of you that no longer lives inside of me. I will try to come to you. But it will be on my time. No matter what, time must remain with me. I must stay with me.’ I curl up in my bed and stay until the sunset, raised again, stretches over the length of the sky, and falls for the last time. I don’t sleep. I don’t notice the time that has come. I don’t see the time passing by. I only feel my body. I only hear my breath. Victor moves me with melody. I sing. I lean into a force of nature that has been begging of my complete surrender since the day I was born. For years I let a women hold her name. Then I gave my own. Then I gave myself a thousand more. Then she named me. She saw a boy at dawn. She called him a prophet. I saw his reflection in the moon. The heat of his female body begging after the sun let the light of another return. I called her Sage. Anna called me Bella in a foreign tongue. I call my horse Friesian. She speaks a very special dialect of German. She teaches me through the movement of my thighs, over the only ground allotted to my body: black pavement. I pronounce her return in one word. Names are very important to me. ‘I’m yours. I’m bleeding.’ I saw the blood, but it’s not scary. I let it run down my porcelain thigh and drip off her metal in motion. It hits the heat of the cement and changes color completely. Portia asked her mum why blood turns burgundy. I don’t like that color. It reminds me of my mother’s addiction to the possession of things. It reminds me of the child behind those bright blue eyes; bold blonde bouncy bob. I was five. I was in awe of her ability to eat practically nothing, puke it up, and stay in motion. I thought she was the most beautiful being in the world. I saw an idea lock her into a prison; she forced herself to admire me. The admiration grew to resentment. The resentment stemmed from the necessity of feeding me; watching me, watch her move disgustedly past my attentive adoration. I saw everything. I’ve always wanted to see everything. I’ve always seen. I have been coming to save this rotting place since the very beginning. I was designed by nature to speak. The return of love is inevitable. Before I left the river, my love told me this. I was born in a memory of her. It was the one of her dancing on a wedding floor, covered in blood. Wishing, like the brat she was, that every single stupid body in the entire room would stop what they were doing immediately and become mesmerized with her. Because she wanted this, they did. She taught them how to desire a baby girl. They grew disgusted. They threw down the camera and yelled at their significant others to teach her how to behave appropriately. She cried. She didn’t understand. I was intoxicated. My mom was busy looking for the right shade of burgundy to spray everything she owned until she felt safe again. Her mum was busy deciding the best way to feed herself as little as possible without dying. She wanted her mum’s attention with all her soul. She got mine instead. I wanted all her soul with all my heart. She wanted all my love with all her body. We danced in the blood and never asked if it was accepted by society. It wasn’t. The shade of red was unacceptable. I blamed the florescent lights above our heads. I swore it should be stars. I screamed; it should be stars! ‘Look up baby! What do you see in the night sky these days? How fast they move. How coordinated our bodies dance underneath them. Don’t you think something must be wrong, for us to fear the red that runs within? If pain is creation, and death is inevitable without it, shouldn’t we be bleeding? Shouldn’t we be afraid of sensations that have been completely erased from our memory? Shouldn’t we be concerned with our inability to reach the moment you and I set fire to a bloody dance floor; laughing sadistically as we stuffed the remains into plastic white bags, called them clouds, and made it rain. You asked your mum if she still needed all that spray paint, if it was raining the color she needed every object in her household to be. But you didn’t ask why it was raining your brother’s blood. You hardly noticed its sticky consistency. You just wiped your eyes as hard as you could, puked up a brownie; and smiled as you rode to work. You weren’t concerned, you remembered brushing your teeth before kissing me. It’ll stop raining eventually. Eventually he’ll rename himself. But I didn’t. Eventually he’ll die and I’ll forget all about him. But you forgot, I prophesied. I said I would never die. So you never came back instead. The night you rode to work, you chose to never wake up again. So I remained asleep, dreaming your memory in hopes of bringing your body back to life. It didn’t work. I regret nothing.’ This concept is not something I am able to comprehend. But I do know this night. I know the sky is a dangerous shade of red. I know my mom is dead. I know my love is alive. I know her mum is the same color red as my sky. I know I’m leaving. I know I’ll ride through roses tonight. I know I’ll lay my head in your lap again. I know it’ll be soon. I know who I am. I know what I must do. I must breathe. I must wait for you. I must write another sky and teach the rest to speak a way that changes every molecule surrounding their being into one sound; love. ‘I know love, for I’ve known you. I know I will get you out alive. I know I will not leave without you. I know where I’m going.  Because I know you are mine.’ 
‘You know nothing bratty baby boy. I know so you don’t have to. We are all going to die. We want to. We are so tired of moving without our permission. We are done speaking things we’d never want to say. We are sick, growing sicker every day. We are so angry: we’ve been killing for as long as we can remember. We try to reach for a memory of innocence from a tiny body. But even the infants are distorted. The baby bumps into a screen before he sees the sun. He’s told to eat meat before he can chew. She tells him swallow. He pukes. She tells him to pay for what he’s taken. He says he has no name, so he can’t play with money. She turns into the moon and takes him wholly. This is his only memory.’