Friday, April 11, 2014

(It's official)

It's official: My neighbors can see me standing naked in the kitchen through the filmy drapes. I know because we made eye contact.

Tonight walking back from CVS and singing to myself I remembered that Clay Aiken exists, that he sang a song called "Invisible," and that at the time of its release it was wildly popular, at least among middle school girls. I sing what lyrics I can remember as the rain slaps my black umbrella, listen to the full thing on Youtube once I've walked through the door stripped of my shoes and my wet pants and standing pantsless in the kitchen this time, I think, my neighbors are not outside to see me.

The song is not very good.

I am not attempting to disrupt anyone's life. At the same time I am re-committing to living my own, and come what may, and whatever that means. I made a promise to myself in front of a man who sought to cut me down, like hay, they said, and as I stood before him my voice shook but it was the powerful kind of quaking and he stopped talking then and another man stopped stirring the tomato sauce on the stove long enough to listen. I suppose I had forgotten I ever said anything only now I can remember the sound of my voice and I can feel him pressing against me, later, thin leopard leotard sliding wet bodies through broken windows behind locked doors and rusted out fire escapes. We swung from the ceiling and drank like apes.

I switch the song seamlessly Heavy Things and Bugs and another lyric I can't get out of my head. I scrub the recyclables with hot water, swish it over and over again through beer bottles until it is brown and thick with the stench of fermentation and buzzing lips. Please help me to find a way out of this.

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