Writing Final Portfolio

 

Things That Happen on a Wednesday

I.

You are constantly eating your words. They must taste good. That has to be the reason you do it so often. Sometimes, I feel like you can’t help it. Maybe that is better than saying them. You cannot control your words. They come out so rapidly, so many at once, that you have to start chewing them. Instead of speaking your words, you chew and you choke and you swallow and then digest them. Your bladder must be full of words. There is probably a new language in there.

But there are times when I wish you would spit it out. I want to stand over you, reach my arms down your throat and pull those words out of your gut before they get digested. Before they get turned into something new.

II.

I went to order my food.

He touched my hand as I handed him your card.

Maybe he didn’t know it was your card.

III.

The chair started out light in my arms. I felt like I was a parade marshal. Behind me was a marching band made up of stolen utensils, stranger’s keys, sticky bottle caps and broken soda tabs. We marched on. There was no set rhythm, no sheet music to follow.

The chair grew heavy in my arms. The streets were empty. No one peered out through lit windows. Only the barren trees and their piles of leaves could enjoy our sounds.

HEAT

A Series of Heated Events

I.

I slowly allowed my body to lean up against the wall. I tried to be careful of the heater. But I was not careful enough. The front of my shins touched the hot metal. They lay against it for a second, contemplating the heat. I have noticed my reactions are slower these days. The front of my shins jumped back, but the rest of my body stayed up against the warm wall. I tried moving my legs again.

II.

The page is searing with my personal thoughts, layered on top of one another. I felt more vulnerable than ever. Although most of the words were not legible, I felt the most personal ones were out there, in the open. I stood there, feeling exposed, even though others might say I am hardly exposing myself at all. I cut my arm and opened it up, hoping to reveal muscle, veins and bone, down to the marrow. Instead a heat wave rolled out and crashed to the ground. Even if I had stood there in the nude, I wouldn’t feel as vulnerable as my words make me feel.

III.

The other night I set my kitchen on fire. At first, it was an innocent act. I was making popcorn. I poured oil into the pan and then placed the pan onto the stove. I checked the pan and a flame jumped out. Bright orange danced in the air. It taunted me. The fire called to me by name, it invited me to dance with it. And so I danced. I danced until the entire kitchen was engulfed in orange, which was not for very long, because it was a small kitchen.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

They are having sex above me,

And I am underneath, dying.

I drown out the sounds,

Shove fingers in my ears.

But the fire and the elephant and the bells

Keep calling to me.

I answered their calls.

Brought rope to smooth skin

And flew for a thousand years.

Heat Meditation

Last night I did not dream.

This morning as I made breakfast, I burnt my hand. I see only the heat waves. I leave the stove on, but with nothing on it. I sit down on the couch with my palms facing up on my lap. As I stare at my hands, you walk into the room. You’re already dressed. I don’t notice you as you kiss the top of my head. I also don’t notice you as you walk into the kitchen, expectant of food, and turn off the stove and leave. I sit on the couch with my palms facing up on my lap for the rest of the day.

You return home. Nothing has changed except for the light. You come into the living room and kiss the top of my head. I break my trance. I go into the kitchen and turn on the stove. You stand in the doorway. I put oil in the pan and watch it slide around. You lean in the doorway, monitoring my every move. My wrists are bandages and I have purple crescents under my eyes. I throw some bacon in the pan. It sizzles. The temptation is just too much. You take over in the kitchen. But before I leave, I run my fingers along the top of the burner to feel that sensation briefly, one last time. I go back to the couch and sit with my palms facing up on my lap.

Dreams don’t visit my sleep anymore.