I CANNOT HEAR YOU HERE.
it's springtime, love. open your eyes.
x
12:00 a.m. - Wednesday, October 22, 2003 - [whisper]
august
It's summertime. All bright sticky days and hot sticky nights. With all the children in this neighborhood, the icecream truck gets mobbed.
12:19 a.m. - Thursday, August 7, 2003 - [whisper]
selfportrait
I'm nowhere-nothing girl. I belong nowhere and I'm less than nothing.
03:05 a.m. - Friday, July 25, 2003 - [whisper]
bits and pieces of july
after a while everything just stops & it's okay & it's okay.
~
your breath staining my cheek & it's all falling down.
~
spinning away the days & it goes on & it goes on.
~
and maybe it's okay if i let go.
03:02 a.m. - Friday, July 25, 2003 - [whisper]
summerchild
Mid-July - vanilla icecream, blue sky, the leather of the backseat sticking to my thighs. You were always my thunder storm, my summer lightning, the scent of sunwashed earth and freshly fallen rain. This season was your element and, like just-cut grass, green and fragrant and and fallen, I was never quite right and I never quite fit. Trailing along behind you, melting in your smiles, lone December baby fading away beneath the sun. But I didn't mind. When I was at my best, amid vibrant falling leaves, snow angels, and icestorms, you were the shadow, the folorn summerchild quietly holding my hand. Only fair, then, that I dissolve beneath your warmth when you are strong and bright, simple snowflake girl.
Come autumn I'll hold your hand again.
&
10:22 a.m. - Tuesday, July 1, 2003 - [whisper]
snapshot
the city is dying around me & youre spawning bullets like butterflies & all i can think is dear god youre beautiful.
01:19 p.m. - Monday, June 30, 2003 - [whisper]
dear XXX,
I've been drowning in your footsteps. I don't know how long you've been gone but I know I'm falling farther behind each day. Chasing you across this dry and endless sea. How much longer before I lose you completely?
You're like a wound gaping from my side, an obscene red-mouthed smile. [Memories like butterflies brushing my fingertips. The softness of your pillow beneath my cheek. Summer sunlight in your hair. The way the corners of your eyes turn up when you smile.] Slipping through my fingers.
What would you say to me now? Do you even remember me? That strange starshine girl trailing always behind you, a second shadow clothed in flesh. Tracing your shape in the sand. I think you're beyond me, now.
But perhaps that's how it's supposed to be.
05:33 p.m. - Saturday, June 21, 2003 - [whisper]
concise
fireworks behind my eyelids, exploding in forbidden space - sparklers against the darkness, the fourth of july folded neatly inside my head. (i can hear your breathing slow beside me but i know forever is only a word).
&
10:39 a.m. - Wednesday, June 18, 2003 - [whisper]
whisp
there were always those sad little smiles, curling at the corners of her mouth. it's june, she thought. it's summer.
11:13 p.m. - Sunday, June 15, 2003 - [whisper]
a lesson in romanticism
I think you're lovely, he says, your star fills my sky.
12:05 a.m. - Sunday, June 8, 2003 - [whisper]
ether
Hollow child, how easily you turn from that you once held dear. Where is the spark and the warmth, the laughter for which you are so famed?
Gone, gone, diminished to naught. Never again to grace this face, ever turned from the sun.
A toy ballerina upon a painted box and all your springs broken.
08:19 a.m. - Friday, June 6, 2003 - [whisper]
?
you make my hands smile and my mouth ache
05:20 p.m. - Sunday, May 25, 2003 - [whisper]
sublime
&I never could escape the slide of your hands against my hips, your fingers beneath my skin.
08:12 a.m. - Monday, May 19, 2003 - [whisper]
birds
I deal in hate &the summer months when there is no escape.
08:11 a.m. - Monday, May 19, 2003 - [whisper]
today
i haven't said a word baby. you've got me caught beneath your skin.
11:14 p.m. - Friday, May 16, 2003 - [whisper]
lisp
- and your hands, huge, hungry, and soft.
02:06 a.m. - Monday, May 12, 2003 - [whisper]
fly
with summer lightning on the tongue -
02:00 a.m. - Monday, May 12, 2003 - [whisper]
[silence]
&i've got demons beneath my skin
10:59 a.m. - Sunday, May 11, 2003 - [whisper]
hello
I could slit my tongue and wave with both hands -
01:00 p.m. - Monday, May 5, 2003 - [whisper]
all i have to say
darling, i despise you
06:25 p.m. - Thursday, April 24, 2003 - [whisper]
dawn
summer, and lightning, and death. sunrise and armageddon, the expulsion of a new sea, compressed into a single moment. the sky, bleeding, red, swollen. a startled birth, a bare second. the way your hands fit against my hips. good morning, love.
11:05 p.m. - Thursday, April 17, 2003 - [whisper]
droplet
simple and unlovely, this saltwater girl. washed through murky street puddles and sliding down gutters, a dirty sea angel fallen from the eyelashes of god. she's slipped through my fingers and she'll slip through yours.
&
07:52 p.m. - Monday, April 14, 2003 - [whisper]
exuent
This is the place where the whispers gather to speak of old blood and oil spills, where the ringing in my ears is overwhelmed by the roaring in my head. I can never reach quite far enough to touch your hands but I can still taste your smile.
When did this gulf open between us? When did I sink too far into myself to see you?
04:15 p.m. - Monday, April 14, 2003 - [whisper]
intentionally unpunctuated
and im
lipless
lidless
eyeless
cos ive got you rattling in my bones, baby.
and youre crazy if you think i can let you go.
&
08:12 p.m. - Sunday, April 13, 2003 - [whisper]
bleed
desecration, these craters beneath my skin. jagged sucking holes that inhale the light, feeding the contraction in my chest, a black hole where my heart should be. i am only a hollow shell, love. come not to me for i will only swallow you whole.
i always told you to fear the dark. i had hoped you would never learn why.
&
11:45 a.m. - Sunday, April 13, 2003 - [whisper]
slicken
i feel like i'm going too fast. my words are sticking together but i can't open my eyes long enough to care.
07:59 a.m. - Sunday, April 13, 2003 - [whisper]
oscura
Darkness. Seething softly against her skin, the taste heavy and black in her mouth. There was never anything but this, the the scurrying whispers, the lightless space behind her eyelids. Hands bound and mouth shut, she surrenders to the night.
in application.
09:31 p.m. - Saturday, April 12, 2003 - [whisper]
sauce
I crave words that tear through me like bullets through paper. That make me want to swallow the sun and drown the moon, rip the stars from the sky and thread them through my hair. That speak like firefly trails and teach me the paths through winter.
I seek a reflection of myself through another's eyes.
02:44 p.m. - Saturday, April 12, 2003 - [whisper]
touchless
i am the ocean you left behind.
02:43 p.m. - Saturday, April 12, 2003 - [whisper]
orange
Her sunset hopes fall like autumn leaves, wrinkled and brown and dry.
05:05 p.m. - Friday, April 11, 2003 - [whisper]
increase
i think i may have bitten through my tonge in my sleep and swallowed the blood. though i suppose i have swallowed less pleasant things. my throat is not raw nor coated nor scabbed but only dry. my breath whispers unkindly within and i am drowned by the ghost of pain.
05:02 p.m. - Friday, April 11, 2003 - [whisper]
sparticus
I love the way you smell in the morning, he says, his mouth small and red against mine. His voice is warm and I am content.
05:02 p.m. - Friday, April 11, 2003 - [whisper]
wither
I miss the trees in June. December branches pierce my hands and I cannot remember the scent of leaves.
Crossposted here.
06:41 p.m. - Tuesday, April 8, 2003 - [whisper]
indelible
I've got your fingerprints on my eyelids and I don't know how to wash them off.
05:44 p.m. - Tuesday, April 8, 2003 - [whisper]
summering
I think I may have melted underneath it all. So many layers, thick and suffocating, drawing death through my lips with each breath. The air sticks to my skin and there is no space for my words. Heat fills my mouth, my throat, and I think that this is only another way to drown.
I think of you then. And I miss the sunlight on the water.
05:39 p.m. - Tuesday, April 8, 2003 - [whisper]
wings
she'd always thought his blood lovely against the grass. she never told anyone so, not when it was over, not long after. but something about its darkness, its redness on the verdance had spoken to her.
it had almost seemed like the ground was weeping, ruby tears sliding along the blades of grass while his heart beat his life away.
03:33 p.m. - Sunday, April 6, 2003 - [whisper]
isis
How often have I spoken these brittle autumn words? You do not seem to hear me no matter how many times I repeat them and the room grows cold. Summer has fallen, beloved. It is time to move on.
she speaks of fallen petals and longed for rain.
03:30 p.m. - Sunday, April 6, 2003 - [whisper]
never
I don't know what gave you the idea that this was what I wanted. I've never tried to reach into the secret space behind your eyes; I've never even told you I knew it was there. Can't you accept that I've never lived inside your skin?
There are things inside me you cannot touch, beloved.
Love with your mouth shut, baby. Just let it go.
02:19 p.m. - Sunday, April 6, 2003 - [whisper]
guatemala
Note: Bits and pieces of my hispanic project written for Minority Studies. Mostly just posted to take up space while I change layouts. Go look at the archives or montressora for better writing.
{Javier is screaming. He’s screaming and screaming and he won’t stop and other people are screaming and the guns are like thunder. I want to cover my ears but Mamá is holding on too tightly and will not let me slow.
The ground is slippery and the rain obscures my vision. I want to ask Mamá if she is sure we are running in the right direction, and what if we are all running the wrong way, but I am running too hard and breathing too fast to speak.
It feels like we are running forever. My legs are tired and I don’t know how far away the city is. Mamá is holding my hand even more tightly now and I think that my hand will have finger-shaped bruises when she finally lets go.}
{The man comes with a truck full of empty wooden boxes. We wait in the cold blue light of almost-dawn, Mamá and I. Mamá, twenty-two other people, and I. Two by two we are nailed into the boxes and Mamá has to cover my mouth to keep me from screaming when it is our turn. The wood is untreated and rough, splinters dig into my skin with each small movement. There is no ventilation and breathing is difficult. It smells of sawdust and I think it feels like a too-small coffin.
The sounds of the rest of the group as they are being loaded are muffled. When he is finished with the last box, the man roars a warning not to make any noise, and then his heavy steps move on to the cab of the truck. The ignition chokes to life and we are on our way. The boxes shift and rattle with the truck. At one point a neighboring container slams into us as we turn a corner and I bite my knuckle to keep from crying out. Mamá holds me tightly and does not make a sound.
She has not spoken much at all since Javier died, I reflect. It seems like she is saving them for something and I do not understand. I have not escaped the guilt of my brother’s death, though she has told me that it was not my fault. I think she does not understand. I know that I would not have been able to save him. But that I begrudged him anything while he was dying, that he would have taken it so calmly and so well… I will never forgive myself for wishing him gone. Mamá and I never speak of Javier and Papá is a forbidden topic.
I lean against her, close my eyes, try to pretend I am someplace else. She is warm, and strong. It is not hard to believe that we are home. It is night and we are all asleep, curled around one another. Mamá, Papá, Javier, and me. I feel a familiar tickling start behind my eyes. I push it away, angry with myself. This is not the time or the place to give in to tears.
The drive is interminably long as we are jounced over rutted roads and through noisy towns. I try not to think about automobile accidents or the way the walls of the box seem to be closing in on me. Instead, I try to concentrate on my mother’s form, solid behind me. I will not think of what I have lost. I still have her, and that is enough. I will make it enough.}
{The streets are dusty and the sun is hot. I walk slowly in the shadows of buildings as I return home from school. This is our second year in America and I am almost eleven years old. My English has improved steadily, even if I cannot hide my accent. I am teaching Mamá slowly but surely and she stumbles proudly over the words.
I pause at a red light, eyeing the group of Anglo boys on the other side apprehensively. They do not look too much older than me but I have seen them around enough to know that they are not nice people. I do not want to pass through them but it is getting late and I promised Mamá that I would be home early today.
The light changes and they do not move. I make my way across quickly, and keep my eyes on the ground. Perhaps if I do not seem like a threat they will leave me alone. I pass through their ranks and am about to breathe a sigh of relief when a sudden hand grasps the back of my shirt.
‘Where are you going bonita?’ he asks me, the Spanish word rolling easily of his tongue. I do not answer him and I do not look up.
Rough fingers slide under my chin and jerk my face up. The boy smirks at me and then looks back at his friends. They are laughing.
‘I don’t think she speaks English,’ he says, and then turns back to me. ‘¿Cómo te llamas?’ His voice his smug. I know he thinks he has beaten me.
‘I hate you,’ I tell him in Quiche’. My voice is soft but I cannot keep the anger from my eyes. I see surprise flicker across his face and he lets go of my chin. He steps away from me, saunters back towards his friends.
‘Not worth it,’ he tells them.}
{The shadows are lengthening and I am hurrying home from work. Somewhere behind me a radio begins blasting Gloria Estefan’s latest song and I roll my eyes. There has been an explosion of Latinos in American entertainment lately and I am not impressed. No matter how much people rave about Latinos or Chicanos none of it means anything. They might be singers and they might be actors but they are not the ones who are living the life. Their faces might loom at me from billboards or televisions but I do not identify with them. Nothing in their roles or songs tell me that they have hurried down darkening streets at night, afraid because of the color of their skin or hair. They are famous but to me they are nothing. They are not what I will strive to become.
Mamá is waiting for me when I arrive home. I smile and kiss her. She is still very thin, but then so am I. When I look at her objectively I can still say that she is beautiful. But I must also notice that peculiar angularity that belongs only to those who have never had quite enough to eat.
The smell of tamales pervades the air. I close my eyes and think of Guatemala.}
02:04 p.m. - Sunday, April 6, 2003 - [whisper]
