Invisible Ink

You sent me a blank letter. It’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me and now it’s not blank because it’s got my tearstains on it. Tears are so pale but they’re much easier to read than ink. Red ink everywhere, that’s why I dyed my hair purple. You always liked the color of my hair. I’m a little depressed, can you tell? Whatever. There’s nothing there for you to read because I’m not writing back. You could talk all night about nihilism, but in the end nothing is so much louder. You got my clear tearstains to do the talking for you. I never said you weren’t clever. I said a lot of other things, and most of them were lies, but that’s one thing I never lied about. At heart, our cleverness is all we really have. People say things like saccharine dreams about having each other forever, and I know I said that too, but in the end I think we only had each other for those seconds in the sky. It was a lie but it made you smile. So can you hate me for it? I know you will because you cried twice as much when it was over. Bled, too, but you said it was nothing. It broke your heart that I wasn’t crying, but in the end I bled the most. Red, like my hair was. Those pale tears are easier to see than blood, which is funny. You’d think that what people say and something as indelible as blood would speak louder than clear teardrops that don’t tell the truth anyway, but what can I say? There’s something about silence that makes you listen, but what can they hear if there are no sobs? There’s something about blood that makes you want to look away. It belongs somewhere private like your veins. You should have just kept your dreams and tears and ink and blood inside. If you hide it all away, nobody will ever know. Just be that enigmatic paper. A blank letter is a very nice thing to say

Understanding Fireflies

I was always your little firefly. I don’t think you ever knew. I was everything to you, but you didn’t know about the fireflies. It was an all-or-nothing deal, so you lost everything. Repossess your soul for fifty cents’ debt. I tried to explain about the fireflies singing like stars and that summer tree looking dead and skeletal against the twilight sky burning so brightly, but I don’t think you listened. I bet you remember every single thing I said to you, but you never listened. It was like I had to share my body and you were in love with some else inside. Schizophrenia by proxy. She kept talking and I bit my lip but she was never around when the punishments were handed out so I covered for her. Sometimes you lack motivation when you’re self employed. She was a party girl, swings by to get drunk and invites all her friends and trashes the house and I’m the hostess but I don’t know any more than anybody else what’s going to happen next. Look at yourself, or consult Nostradamus. A professional consultation of some sort is in order, anyway. And then I’m lying stunned in the snow with a massive fucking hangover which is funny because I didn’t drink, she must have had a hell of a lot of vodka for it to spill over and make my world all shaky too. And then you say you love me, and I’m wondering, what did she do? And I wake up and remember and it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach, but just in case I punch myself because I can’t believe I did something so incredibly cruel and stupid, but she just feels so pretty in this body. She likes my taste in clothes. And I try to explain about the fireflies, and how I’d never kiss anyone who didn’t understand, but the fireflies are reflected in my eyes and I know how pale my skin looks in candlelight, so I don’t think you’re really thinking about it the way you’d understand Nietzsche. You understand some dead nihilist, but you don’t understand me. You say you understand the fireflies and then she wakes up sleeping in again and kisses you. So of course now you think you understand, but you don’t and you never will. And I told the truth for once and from that look of betrayal, I don’t think you understand yet. I won’t try to explain again, it’s enough that you know your chance is gone, and I’m very sorry for everything she did. I’m ashamed to admit she’s me. The part of me that doesn’t understand the fireflies either. Birdsong

This night lasted a thousand years. Love doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to enjoy in perfect solitude, but what do I know? Tiptoeing through my own house, when did I start apologizing for the world? A midnight apple seems so sinful and I think I’ve been talking to my not-friends for too long. I sneak it back although nobody is watching, oppression is half the fun. All I want is to be left alone, but it’s not a proper crying jag unless I scream my hatred at least once. Serious and silent tears, though, those need darkness and the mournful cricket’s violin. If I die tonight, tell me they will sing my requiem and the moon will be the only one to cry. Brass bells in the house of a strange god and somebody tastefully sobbing who’s paid by the hour to mourn unnoticed suicides is reason enough for living. Besides, without the sun-worshipping scrutiny, I can almost believe that the jasmine is real and feel free. She sits there waiting for answers which I eventually provide as she smugly petitions providence. If she’d stop and think, she’d realize she must abandon her god or believe I deserve damnation. But she’s hoarding up her milk and honey and doubts kill angels. The words come tumbling out, sounding petty without the dirge the vivacious sorrow dies, leaves only a self-destructive boredom. I could have lain crying for hours, but now I have only the pain and nothing to cry for. Happy that I must crawl to her for food and emotion, she leaves me apathetically comatose, prone to fits of violence. This night I sobbed joyfully, because such a beautiful soul had to die alone. The birds sang the entrance of the sun, but I prefer to think of it as the requiem of the moon because that self-satisfied and prying sunlight always reminds me how fragile and unreal everything is. I think that was the first time I ever heard dawn birdsong. It’s the kind of thing you never forget, that you won’t tell your children, because you have to learn for yourself and sit all night in unique misery so that the birdsong will be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

Stardust and Loneliness

Laughing and making my excuses, plunge relieved into silence. I don’t see why I must make excuses to be alone. Talking and talking to hear what we know again and again the world is as it should be. These numbers, I’ve forgotten what they stand for. Without them I will die, and isn’t that all that matters? They way we talked you’d think she was my friend. I suppose you could say that about a lot of people, but she isn’t my friend after all nobody is nobody ever says something I don’t already know. If somebody would explain why I need those numbers so much I would befriend them. I whisper this sentiment because friendless as I am I still don’t need the sideways stares of one who has asked why the stars are. Of course my stars are dark and the ground is falling beneath my feet, but nobody else knows this and it would make them feel uncomfortable if they did. Let’s just pretend everybody basks in sunlight and stands upon unshakable bedrock, because earthquakes are very uneasy things. His eyes are hollow, hollow, and I wonder if he has ever stood on stable ground. He doesn’t cry because he’s never had stars to lose. Who then is the most unfortunate of the two? Surely he must clutch to the idea of a friend as he falls. When I forget what a friend is, that is when I am most and least alone. Loneliness eases my heart. Freefall feels like floating really. An object in motion tends to stay in motion, unless acted upon by some outside force. Launched serenely into the vacuum like a burial at sea. Ashes to ashes of a long-dead world, dust to dust we are stardust born in the sun and raised in darkness. But don’t we all have a sun in our hearts? Still, silence is easier on the eyes.