All that has been done

I'm so cold.

I know I'm cold for a reason. I'm cold because I don't deserve to be warm.  I'm colder than I've ever been, and the winter seems like a furnace around me.

Each time a snowflake drifts down from the gray and lands on my bare, bloody skin, it sizzles and blisters me.

But I don't disturb the tranquility. I lie there, unmoving, unresponsive.

They seem so peaceful, those burning white flakes, silently covering every inch. I see one, and then two, and then five, and then five thousand.

They blanket me in silence.

I do not protest.

I must merit this fiery hell.

Soon enough, I will be covered in white. The winter will blanket my body and my blood and my sins, and nobody will be able to see me for the insignificant creature I must be.

I'll be hidden from all that has been done, and I pray that all that has been done will be hidden from me.

A Dream from 1981

That old vanity where she always put on her makeup and curled her hair had a mirror big enough for the two of us.
It looked like rock-n-roll and royalty. It smelled like cigarettes and seventeen.
I liked to watch her in the reflection: her perfect eyes, her luscious red lips, her confidence. She blended and highlighted and brushed like an expert.
She'd been the only girl.
After having three rowdy boys by natural means, my grandmother decided not to take any chances. She adopted a girl.
And so, my aunt garnered quite a bit of attention from the rest of the family, including me.
She was the center of the world. She listened to the loudest music, had the wildest friends, knew the sexiest dance moves. She was living the life, and I wanted to live the life, too, so it didn't faze her to have me always at her side, soaking up some of the awesome she exuded.
The vanity, that's where it happened.
That's where I became suddenly aware of the other presence in the mirror.
A small child with big, blue, adoring eyes and soft, blond curls stared back at me.
A beautiful girl with a crack running across her face--a big, black crack from ear to ear.
The Me in the chair looked at the Me in the mirror, wondering--what could it mean to have such a crack straight across like that? What damage could it cause? How should this be handled?
The Me in the mirror had no qualms. She reached up with both hands, lifted the upper half of the head and revealed the brain within.
No worries.
The crack sealed itself up once the deed was done, and the Me in the mirror placed a finger on her lips and smiled back at the Me in the chair.
The Center of the World never even noticed.

Hitch Hiker

I guess he lied to me, that man on the side of the road. He said we'd be together.
But we never were--not for the length of the dream. His friends brought messages to me, later. Empty words from an empty soul.

He was more of a boy, really, who smelled like the king's treasure and tasted like a fool's paradise.

It was a long, winding stretch of asphalt ribbon, where I'd first seen him.

Also, where I'd last seen him.

I guess he was just along for the ride.

But You Weren't Really There

"Why are you here?"

I'd been sleeping and dreaming and pretending the world couldn't see me, but your voice eased through me like warm, spiced wine. I wondered for a few seconds where I might be. In the vertigo between dreams, I couldn't remember where I'd nodded off. I certainly couldn't recall how I came to be so warm, under the covers, in a bed, next you.

You've been so distant lately. I haven't seen you or heard from you. I'm not sure you ever think about me at all. But, there you were, whispering into my ear in the middle of the night, just like old times.

I was surrounded by the soft coverlet I'd bought for myself, and the paintings on the wall were the ones I painted myself. This was my bedroom, for sure. I rolled over and repositioned my head on the goose-feather pillow you used to steal from me every time you came over. There you were; your black, accusing eyes stared into my soul.

"Why are you here?" you asked again, but in a new, less curious, more demanding tone.

"This is my bed," I whispered. "You're in my bed." I should have been asking you, but it didn't occur to me at the time to wonder. It seemed so natural that you would be there. You'd been there before. It wasn't an odd situation, nor was it a frightening one.

"But why are you here?" you questioned again, and the truth is, I didn't have the answer you were looking for. I don't think I've ever had the answer you were looking for, because I've never really understood the question. I've never understood anything about you.

"This is my side of the bed," I whispered. It's an old game. I'd claim my side to be the top side. You could have the bottom. Then I'd push you over the edge, and we'd wrestle, and giggle, and then maybe we'd make love.

So I tried to push you off. Because you were on my side. Invading my space. You refused to budge. You wouldn't go over. Instead, you pulled me closer and wrapped both arms around my waist. Your face snuggled into the crook of my neck, and I could feel your hurried, frightened breath against my skin.

"Why are you here?"

End of Shift

It happened just as I was trying to clock out. The numbers teased me by appearing only in my mind and not making their way to my fingers. I couldn't find the correct buttons. Two four, seven...something. That's when it happened. That's when I needed to divert my attention to more pressing matters.
It must not have been real life. There would have been more blood.
Truth is, I was concerned that there wasn't more. The pale yellow bone protruding from her midsection seemed awkward, out of place, as if it had been used as a weapon to kill her. As if it didn't belong to her at all.
She'd been hit by a car, though, and cars don't attack with bones. They tend to maim by brute force of bumper. My theory just didn't pan out.
It was my job to first gather the towels used to apply pressure, and then to hold her slender, limber arms down so that she wouldn't dislodge the bone. I recognized her. She was Holly from Brit Lit. I'd never seen her outside the classroom. I smiled down at her, hoping she'd recognize me as a friendly face.
Alexis--calm, sweet, controlled Alexis--was wigging out. The other girl--the bystander--held towels over the ears. One of them had been ripped halfway off. The bystander moved it into place and then vocalized her fear that our poor victim might remember all this once she was stitched back together. She covered both the ears to minimize her misery. There seemed to be a lot of yelling. After that, there seemed to be a lot of screaming. I wondered if it would help at all.
Off to the side, in the corner of my eye, I could see the bright glow of an odd yellow light.
Not a white light.
Not a tunnel.
Not a life flashing by.
Just golden rays of light peeking through into our world from some other dimension, observing us, judging us, selecting us...

Gravity

My breasts were magnificent.

Truly magnificent.

And so were my thighs.

That's how I knew it was a dream.

Future Tense

Am I awake?

I must be. I remember this from before. The comforting weight of his arm, the light, rhythmic snore, the tickle of his beard against my bare shoulder, all familiar.

Except that it hasn’t happened yet. We never did this, so this must be the part that comes later.

And the part when he accidentally texted me that poem…

“hey

I was listening to the wind whistle
Against the top of my beer can
Trying to figure out what to say
I turned around to tell you
But you’d blown away”

That hasn’t happened yet either.