The wave has come now, salting my clothes, the paper that flutters when I think. I don’t want to talk which is good I guess because I can’t.
My life molds in front of me, eyes open wide, hands stapled to the wall. It’s not the scenes I thought I’d see but more like hearing colors.
The cold rock wall low enough to sit on in elementary school with the silver water fountain that hurt my fingers to twist open on cold days. My see- through tights and the static on the ends of my leg hairs, when they were wispy and white. The rubber of dad’s wetsuits and the liquid plastic he’d used to seal them when they cracked. The dry rubber cracks before he did, running my finger over them and reading in braille how deserts had outsmarted me in times before, taken my blood to flavor the pools while smiling and it was not a nice smile.
Kicking a hole in the promise after he spanked me. Getting detained in Mexico, the German Shephards, the Spanish on particles, the blinking lights, the waiting. Walking a black galaxy alone after school and always the sounds of a yelling from a baseball game and hating how it turned my life into tissue in the wind, or worse, a paralyzed-from-the waist dream.
Picnics in the fog by the Golden Gate Bridge and my scratchy wool sweater, the smell of Papa Murphys pizza, how my hands died and turned into little lead pipes. Jon. Finding and losing that one wolf with hot to the touch eyes. Remembering when he gave the homeless guy a surfboard. Wrote me a note in his dead grandmother’s lace, tucked under my wiper blades and signed with a ball point heart. How he first kissed me with a plate of racing stripes in one hand. How I lost him cause I’m me and I twisted the stars wrong, I turned miracles into jokes and they blinked out and everyone forgot they’d been something once.