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Literature Text
It is nearly three a.m. on a Sunday and half the world is awake.
Strains of the national anthem bounce off the alleyways and filter through my window. From my room on the sixth floor, I can see a group of inebriated revelers stumble past on their way from one bar to another. They laugh and shout and wave a great star-spangled flag above their heads. One boy is wearing pale blue-checkered boxers and little else.
I turn away. Back to my room, which is dark and my roommate who is asleep, and to my bed where I have chased sleep with far less success for nearly three hours. I am supposed to be happy, maybe. Proud, at least. Tonight, of all nights, I am supposed to be able to sleep easier.
I am supposed to be celebrating death.
And yet, the most emotion I can muster is mild surprise, but not because a wanted man is dead.
The boy on the street is wearing the same boxers as I am. Pale blue and checkered. I smooth my hands over the tightly spun cotton, which is all hot under my fingers because it is uncharacteristically warm for May. Even with the window wide open, my skin feels as thought it's burning from the inside.
I plug my fan into a nearby socket, set it on the windowsill, and crank it to a medium setting so that cold air spills over me. I shiver pathetically as a chill rises from the damp fabric of my camisole. A line of sweat runs between my shoulder blades and pools at the small of my back. It feels like the stroke of thin, icy fingers on my spine as the air whisks the heat away.
Suddenly, a sharp pop flicks through the air, like the crack of a whip. Like a gunshot. An unwanted curl of fear twists in my stomach and my right shoulder aches from an old wound that isn't mine.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The too-bright light spills into my room, washing everything in bloody reds. My dark room is bleeding and my roommate shifts in her sleep, and my comforter settles and mutters to itself as the air from the fan sends ripples through the airy goose down.
I am gripping the windowsill so tightly that my nails grate against the cheap laminate and the sharp edges press deep, straight creases into my palms. Pop. Pop. Pop. I'm trying not to flinch at every gunshot firework, trying not to see how my hands are bone white beneath that artificial red veneer, but it is a near thing.
I go to set my alarm a half hour back, and it is the first time I notice how badly my hands are shaking. But, like the fireworks and the red cast of the night sky, I tell myself not to notice.
I know I will have to go back to my bed eventually, and, though it feels impossible, I will sleep. When I do, I will dream of gunshots, of dark rubies in the sand, of bright red flashes. I will see her and scream and wake sometime in the early morning with sheets drenched in sweat, and I will shiver in the cool morning air.
There will be a name on my lips and a familiar ache in my chest, and I will want to wash the sweat and the phantoms and the blood-soaked night away in a scalding, lavender-scented shower, which is why I need an extra half an hour before I go to class.
I know I will do all these things because I have done most of them before, only there has never been a boy wearing my boxers or the drunken singing of a national anthem or a death that merits fireworks.
Still. There have been nights like these before.
It is a little past three a.m.
And it is a perfect time for nightmares.
Strains of the national anthem bounce off the alleyways and filter through my window. From my room on the sixth floor, I can see a group of inebriated revelers stumble past on their way from one bar to another. They laugh and shout and wave a great star-spangled flag above their heads. One boy is wearing pale blue-checkered boxers and little else.
I turn away. Back to my room, which is dark and my roommate who is asleep, and to my bed where I have chased sleep with far less success for nearly three hours. I am supposed to be happy, maybe. Proud, at least. Tonight, of all nights, I am supposed to be able to sleep easier.
I am supposed to be celebrating death.
And yet, the most emotion I can muster is mild surprise, but not because a wanted man is dead.
The boy on the street is wearing the same boxers as I am. Pale blue and checkered. I smooth my hands over the tightly spun cotton, which is all hot under my fingers because it is uncharacteristically warm for May. Even with the window wide open, my skin feels as thought it's burning from the inside.
I plug my fan into a nearby socket, set it on the windowsill, and crank it to a medium setting so that cold air spills over me. I shiver pathetically as a chill rises from the damp fabric of my camisole. A line of sweat runs between my shoulder blades and pools at the small of my back. It feels like the stroke of thin, icy fingers on my spine as the air whisks the heat away.
Suddenly, a sharp pop flicks through the air, like the crack of a whip. Like a gunshot. An unwanted curl of fear twists in my stomach and my right shoulder aches from an old wound that isn't mine.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The too-bright light spills into my room, washing everything in bloody reds. My dark room is bleeding and my roommate shifts in her sleep, and my comforter settles and mutters to itself as the air from the fan sends ripples through the airy goose down.
I am gripping the windowsill so tightly that my nails grate against the cheap laminate and the sharp edges press deep, straight creases into my palms. Pop. Pop. Pop. I'm trying not to flinch at every gunshot firework, trying not to see how my hands are bone white beneath that artificial red veneer, but it is a near thing.
I go to set my alarm a half hour back, and it is the first time I notice how badly my hands are shaking. But, like the fireworks and the red cast of the night sky, I tell myself not to notice.
I know I will have to go back to my bed eventually, and, though it feels impossible, I will sleep. When I do, I will dream of gunshots, of dark rubies in the sand, of bright red flashes. I will see her and scream and wake sometime in the early morning with sheets drenched in sweat, and I will shiver in the cool morning air.
There will be a name on my lips and a familiar ache in my chest, and I will want to wash the sweat and the phantoms and the blood-soaked night away in a scalding, lavender-scented shower, which is why I need an extra half an hour before I go to class.
I know I will do all these things because I have done most of them before, only there has never been a boy wearing my boxers or the drunken singing of a national anthem or a death that merits fireworks.
Still. There have been nights like these before.
It is a little past three a.m.
And it is a perfect time for nightmares.
Literature
we're never what we think.
at least twice a day, i find myself wishing i was less.
less of a worrier.
less of a lover.
less of a mess.
all of this would be so much better, if the disconnect between
what i want and what i have would close because then things
would be simple for the first time in years. and i could inhale
without wondering what kind of consequences it will have five
minutes from now. you can only imagine what really goes
through my mind in the time it'll take you to breathe in and
out. now hold it. like i've been holding this thought for months—
the girl i was is quickly vanishing.
i've been holding it like a secret on the tip of
Literature
antagonistic, i have no pulse.
hold on.
hold onto what?
hold onto me, hold me,
when nothing else matters
because my arms are open 24/7
25/7 actually, even that extra hour
on the longest day of the year
because that's how special you are
(to me? i guess. but i never know
if i guess correctly or not)
"wait, did you say something important/poetic/meaningless?"
what.
"hold on a second, i'm busy."
well, i've never held onto a second;
time always slip through my fragile
fingertips. never held onto an hour
either. or an our. a your? fuck you
pronouns. just hold onto something
(i'm a thi
Literature
it was obsession.
{it was monday}
when i texted you at eight a.m. wondering what you were doing for the day.
i texted you at nine too. oh, and ten.
you didn't reply.
i figured you were busy and left you alone.
it was four in the afternoon when i rang you to see if you were okay.
"i was just worried about you. you weren't replying to my texts!"
you said you were okay and that you had to hang out with your family for the evening.
i hung up and said i'd talk to you online later.
at nine p.m. i wrote to you on facebook.
you said you were just signing off and going bed.
you had to be up early.
i said it was okay and to get some sleep.
i went to bed too
Suggested Collections
Lavender tears
On angels' wings
Which is what I have written at the foot of this piece. I don't know what I meant by it and I don't actually remember writing that part (and really, when have I ever written about angels?), but I do remember my dreams after I finally did fall asleep.
If nothing else, at least I am predictable.
Or just conflicted, if you want to look at it very differently. Which is just a nice way of saying that I don't know how to feel.
On angels' wings
Which is what I have written at the foot of this piece. I don't know what I meant by it and I don't actually remember writing that part (and really, when have I ever written about angels?), but I do remember my dreams after I finally did fall asleep.
If nothing else, at least I am predictable.
Or just conflicted, if you want to look at it very differently. Which is just a nice way of saying that I don't know how to feel.
© 2011 - 2024 o-ohhai
Comments54
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wow this is truly riveting. celebrating death is never the answer, even if it's for someone who deserves it. the fact that it takes a killing for the nation to get together and celebrate makes me sick.