Mistress cellophane

You didn't notice me when I walked in the room.  That's ok, I'm used to it.  Sit down on the bed, open my computer, try to find solace in the virtual world.  You make it look oh so easy.
Remember tonight, man-boys buying me drink after drink, me insisting that I am Taken for good.  After all that, you're feet and worlds away from me here.
My stomach turns, the sick is coming-I can feel it. 

Somehow, tonight I just want to be loved.  Turn and toss-toss and turn.  Tonight I feel restless, tonight I feel wild.  Sitting there, your eyes on the screen, I could toss myself out the window and you wouldn't bother to blink.  So maybe tonight I shall do just that.

"Want anything?"  Not a murmur or mumble in response.  The kitchen is cold, I shift my weight in a ridiculous dance while I wait for the microwave to buzz it's tired finale.  Hot soup burning the taste off my tongue.  You don't glance up at my return.  I balance the soup on top of the weeks of junk on your table, standing sentinel beside your chair.  You look up, annoyed at my apparent interest.  Your expression doesn't change as the cold serrated metal slips between your ribs.  Your last moments on earth will be spent wishing you could just level your alchemy already. 

I turn, ignoring the spluttering as YOU taught me to.  If you're lucky, I will notice you in an hour.

If you're lucky.

Something you won't read.

You have four moles on your cheek that look like a constellation who's name I always forget.   
I will remember this. 
You're just tall enough that I have to stand on tip toe when I kiss your cheek.  I think too that I will remember the way you smell after you step of the shower, soft and a little musty.  I hope I don't remember how I feel tonight.

The game is on the flat screened tv behind me; every so often I turn to look at it.  Not because I'm  actually following the action, just because it seems the right thing to do.  I stare across the table, looking through the girl who is busy ticking off great aunts and second cousins on her fingers.  Instead of listening I count; hockey pictures on the wall: four, cigarette butts in her ashtray: six, people at this table:five, people that I know: zero.  I'm comfortable in anonymity.  Being a friend of a friend of a friend suits me just fine, for now. 

It's not until the talk turns to common ground that I start to flinch.  I know the stories by heart.  I know the way the ache rises in the back of my throat and how to push it down again.  Tonight is different.  Tonight they are laughing. 
"-walking in the room and pulling off the blanket...priceless expressions...begged us not to say anything but of course we were gonna give him shit."
She waves her cigarette in a lewd expression, trailing tongues of smoke.  Pinching myself under the table, I look away.

Before I can remember not to think about it I remember another bitterly cold night.  We are in the front seat of your car and I am leaning towards you, trying to avoid the old soda that has leaked through it's paper into the cup holder.  You are asking me what I would do if you told me you love me.  I am panicking in such a wonderful way.  My heart is pounding it into my chest over and over again;
He loves me
BA BOOM.
He loves me
BA BOOM.
To me, that night seemed so real.  Now I try to pinch myself out of it before I remember the next part; The way I skipped through the double doors and up the stairs to my bed where I fell asleep, hugging my pillow and still listening to the tattoo of my heart. 

A pause in the conversation-everyone looks at me expectantly.  Non-committal noises from the back of my throat and they are off again, this time comparing notes on mutually acquainted low-lives. 

I imagine their conversation a year from now.  I can see them nodding as they talk about your new fling, joking among themselves about this crazy girl who seemed to believe that she was worth a change of your heart.  This crazy girl who believed it was worth risking everything.  This crazy girl who no one has heard for in months.  This crazy girl.  But quickly the talk will turn again, and I will be a side-note in your history.  Maybe someday you will tell another curly headed girl how you once were silly enough to imagine a future with me; before quickly assuring her that she is nothing like me at all.

Tonight I sit here and think and remember and try to pretend I'm not wilting inside.  I drag the smoke into my lungs gratefully, relishing the scratch in the back of my throat.  You're somewhere miles away, not worrying about any of this. I try to bed my mind to think of nothing.

Your eyes have little flecks of gold in them that spark when you're feeling particularly devilish.
I will remember this.

PSA for the broken hearted

Darling.  Let's talk frankly.  Playing the fool doesn't suit you.  In his world, what you do or say matters even less then your ten dollar words.  You think he's everything a Man should be I suppose-the reality is that he is a man-boy at best. 
Pine away darling, because at the end of the day you are young and he will want someone with a bigger heart and a smaller mind.  I tell you this as a friend-a sister even.
Go back to your room, go back to your meal plan and your roommate and your finals.  Or don't take my advise-toss yourself ruthlessly into his path.  When he turns away, run back to the boy with the dark skin and brown eyes.  He will worship you in a way that blue eyed beauty never will.  Either way, come down to reality. 
TLAM.

Memory from a dream

The night was bitter, the serpentine cold biting at toes and nipping noses.  Once inside the dilapidated house with peeling red paint however, bodies sardine together; pink cheeks and alcohol tinged breath coloring the festivities.  Down a short set of steep stairs the base thumps and a flock of bodies swarms around a table; cheering on their compatriots as they down plastic cups filled with red and orange liquid. 

I alone am dancing, feeling the pulse of the darkness seep into my bones.  There you are, dark hair falling into your eyes.  I have never noticed the way your hair crinkles in the front before.  Charmant.  I know you feel me here.  I know that you are noticing me for the first time too.  In one move you push yourself away from the wall and somehow I find you behind me, hands on my waist and breath in my hair. 

Later we slide over frosted asphalt, ten or twelve of us talking and laughing about nothing in particular.  Tracks in the snow indicate herds of fellow revelers, all with the same destination; I can almost taste the fried cheesy sin smothered in marinara sauce.  Before I can even smell the oils from the frialator, your arm slips under my elbow and suddenly we are alone, going in the entirely wrong direction for food.  Cobblestone streets make it hard for walking in tall shoes, your arm catches my elbow as I nearly clatter my way into a snow dune.

The house when we get there is dark and smells of incense and stale wood.  Your hand is creeping towards my curves, and I am crumpling second by second.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to this reality.  Opening my eyes a hair I see the world curving away from me towards a coffee table and an old worn couch.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to life. 

Arms come into my reality.  Reaching.  Grabbing.  Lifting. 

Grey light, softness.  Mumbling white noise. 

Black.

 ****

It’s eight am according to the bells from the chapel.  I am in a room filled with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing.  I am in a room with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing, and I can’t find my underwear.  It’s not on the bed, not on the floor.  Here there is a door, and going through it I find a living room with a sad old couch and a blank wall where the television should be.  My shoes sit by a coffee table, three inches tall and caked with road salt. 

Opening the door, I step outside barefoot.  I’m home before anyone sees me.

****

The next week, my phone rings.  Addy is engaged, she is crying.  He asked her this morning.  She is laughing through her sobs, telling me how she loves this boy with dark brown hair that crinkles in the front.  I tell her she will be happy.  I tell her he will love her.  I tell her these things like they are the truth.