amaranthine
“I want to be read in depth and not as a distraction, because I don’t read others to distract myself but to understand, to communicate. I don’t want to be distracted.”
The girl feels the static amassing in the oblong room. It’s sharply cold at dawn, and the perforated edges goad a temperament of disorder. Careful not to stand with her arms crossed (too defensive), the girl boils water at the stove for a single cup of coffee— her arms clasped at her back.
Let’s not speak just to split the silence.
Light shatters the cool display and the finches croak with the breeze.
The girl shudders. Her feet are bare as her heart. The floor is dirty as the irregular-shaped box the girl cracks open to place the thoughts that hold no hope for the spirit.
The world is too full of noise to be thinking irreversible things.
Silence is perfect. Like the nail beds of a baby with tiny crescent cuticles. What a wondrous thing to arrive with each particle perfectly formed! No one asked to look as they do—this magnificence we adorn in colourful masks.
The girl’s nausea percolates when she hears her roommates sigh. She places her palms on her abdomen. Her heart thunders between her kidneys. Damn thing—hiding when she needed it most! She feels like a bag of rice ripped in half; its contents disband to the baseboards where the dead spiders and lint deliquesce.
No one bothers with the decay. The girl closes her eyes to the muck and the madness. Her white linen dress knots perfectly at one slim hip. Her feet are soft and flush from oil. She’ll slough the dead skin in the shower with a brush when she leaves the kitchen. Someone should take a broom to the floor, though the girl never gets that far. Sweeping is a chore. Scrubbing her body with a rough luffa is a ritual. There are too many ways to label each action.
Those who have freedom may be bound by their own brand of fear.
She can hear the soft rustle of feet booting bedsheets to the floor, like cats kicking sand in a litter box. Tempted to rush, the girl hops from foot to foot. The boiling point is reached within before the kettle cries.
Stay put! You don’t need to run shrieking from the corridor to avoid conflict.
Her heart is a sassy grimalkin at times.
Creaking doors. Running water. The airplane-like hum of the electric toothbrush. It’s a depreciating morning. The angst of being sought out—the dread of being seen before she is ready to join the conscious realm—the desire for solitude amongst the clash of community.
The girl warms the cream while waiting for the heat to build in the orange caldron. She peels two hard-boiled eggs and places them in a glass jar with a dash of salt, pepper, and paprika. She prepares rye toast with cream cheese and blueberry jam, though she is not hungry.
Her heart has taken up residence at her gut.
If the girl had her own apartment, she’d hang tasselled curtains. Bright blue and teal with fluffy pom poms. Faery light strung up from each archway, with black and white portraits governing the walls. Images of body parts. Hands, knees, shoulders, the spot where the midback arches to the tailbone. Cheeks and chins. Hair tied in low ponytails and woven into tight braids. No faces, please. The girl preferred her lovers cut into parcels like morsels of cake eaten from a glass jar. Here’s a bit of caramel, a dry bite lacking frosting, and a bit of crust with its crunch and crispiness. It’s best to absorb little quadrants. The girl rejoiced in feast and famine—what better way to consume a lover, a bite with and without buttercream.
The girl’s kitchen would present a long marble island with high-top stools and a built-in gas top stove. She’d invite guests over to grill vegetables and meats on skewers. They’d drink cold red wine and toast to the waning satellite. There would be dancing in the plush carpets and jumping on the stuffed pillows the girl would toss to the floor. Lounging is the only way to entertain past midnight. The girl would change into silk pyjamas to match the purple wine lipgloss and invite her guests to sleep with her in bed—kittens in a box lapping at the moon’s milk.
Let’s not speak just to split the silence.
As different entities enter the room, the girl sends her exhales to her heels. Coaxing the heart from hiding is not a quick task to be checked lightly. One must be very rooted. You cannot confront a wolf from a place of panic. Wolves protect the longevity of the pack. Practice letting go to dissolve judgement.
Nostalgia is a distraction to soothe the discomfort of angst. When uprooted, the girl clings to inconsequential details—reading the lines instead of the spaces in between. The girl misremembers on purpose. Her mind reels and thwarts the sensation. Her body feels for the answers, though you cannot rush the process of intuition.
Guides do not always appear when summoned.
Static surmount; the water will not boil! The temperature in the room peaks as pans clatter to make a frittata. The girl stands along the wall; curtains are drawn across her face. Hair has always been the best way to hide. She is too proud to become the spider carcass liquefying with the filth.
Though too timid to make contact.
Flashpoint: violence necessitates awakening. A free mind is an open mind is a creative mind is a controlled mind. What governs each thought, and how to release without wreckage as the escort?
The girl allows the rupture to rise and rinse her body. She closes her eyes and selects the thoughts that impose their dread and disease, opens the creaky box and places each thought down as she would stack a deck of cards. Her hands shake from the heart tremours, though the girl hangs on and finishes the task.
When the kettle screams, the girl is alone in the sweaty corner. She moves to the stove and lifts the pot from the hot element. Pours the water over the coffee grounds in the French Press and waits. A few more minutes to let the flavour seep from bean to water.
There is condensation at the window. A shadow of moisture. Judgement clouds the light, the girl thinks. Her heart rises and slips neatly back into its cage. You are safe, says the girl. Embrace all, exclude none.
We need to talk, says her roommate.
The girl’s heart leaps to her throat. Her coffee is ready to be poured and swirled with thick cream. The window dances with dappling rays. Finches are silent. Each footstep ushers impermanence. I’ll purchase slippers after I depart, the girl thinks. The desert is no place for leather.
Let’s not speak just to split the silence.
rapture ∙ a feeling of intense pleasure or joy. From medieval Latin rapture ‘seizing.’
rupture ∙ a breach of a harmonious relationship. From Latin rumpere ‘to break.’
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