the story of a girl finding herself
in parts
i.
broken
a character description
pens in her hands like cut glass
bleed a sharp truth everywhere.
wallsfloorsfaces
right here
(wherever she knows
you will see it)
since age 18
she has been carving
her name
invisible on her right hip bone.
she recently started keeping her nails short
(not in penance,
not for safety)
but
out of an insistence
on the integrity
of the shape
of her hand.
her moods
swinglowsweetcadillacjoyridehigh
everyone is either a
loved one
a stranger
or both.
no inbetween
polarity
simultaneity
only
stares
questions shamelessly
scares
me, herself, everyone
but especially
you.
she makes homes out of edges
she makes love letters out of doorways with her back.
she moves her arms about her waist as if
(which is true)
she were deciding whether to
brace her bones for the moment
or embrace the whole place.
ii.
sweet meets broken
(in sweet’s voice, confidentially)
the first time I met her she was screaming
pounding her wrists into drywall
trying to break down through steps crashing up
straining against railings
cursing towards 8 flights of ceiling
kicking at thresholds
and slamming the door
throwing her
coat
purse
left shoe
sweat shirt
at the mirror
she tried to embrace the floor
she pushed her hands into the sides of her unsteady mirror
pressed her forehead on the glass
smearing the cool surface with her nose
until she looked up
hardly breathing
at me.
iii.
broken meets sweet
(in broken’s voice, disbelieving)
i had predicted it a week before
and I still couldn’t believe it
my mirror fell off the wall for the third time
and finally shattered
my cd player acted like nothing had happened
but I felt my spin slowing
my hand traced
under my ribs
above my hip
falling
to the pieces of glass on the floor
and I met her eyes
for the first time
heard her voice
she was singing bell edges to the sharp glass between our fingers
she was singing strong ridges to my first layer of skin
she was singing my name in seven unrecorded dialects
but my heart only beat once
and she held me while I cried
she was the first stillness I had known in years
and I kept those shards of glass in an overflowing plastic cup
in case
iv.
beautiful meets broken
(in beautiful’s voice, gravely)
i found her one night
sitting in an abandoned phone booth
chin on her knees
cell phone open
red light steady/ no reception
listening hard
so still
if I hadn’t been staring
(looking for reflection in the pretend glass walls)
I couldn’t have noticed her shaking
If I hadn’t (exhausted) pressed my cheek against the glass
I wouldn’t have heard the whispering
streaming through her teeth
and her bottom-lip
falling in the space between her hair
her hand
her forehead
(I swear it was my name)
she was not crying
she was
not
crying
she was staring down blankly into the moment
we would have to stand up.
v.
broken meets beautiful
(in broken’s voice, the voice of experience)
I’d been looking for her everyday
my fingers tearing through strands of ever tangled hair
mornings drowning in the shower
cutting up my clothes in case she wanted to breathe or something
and as it would happen
she found me
one night
my face was full of floor
growing walled
all corners
yielding to the pressure of my knuckles
every place where bone met muscle met metal
was a war
and I had been here enough to know that
wars are never won
wars are rarely survived
and everytime I blinked
my head was in a different corner of the phone booth
after every breath
I was lower down
my cell phone dead weight
the empty phone jack a gaping haunted entrance
my ears fist-sized open
dry and spilling
and finally my hands
fell to the ground
my forehead hit the outer door glass
and there she was
eyes heavy with waiting
edges salt soft
and we went home.
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