Anyway, it's interesting because my life has not become what I envisioned at age sixteen. (Does anyone's?) This isn't upsetting so much as...like waking up? Not in any traditional symbolic rude awakening sense; it's been more of a late morning, where my eyes open slowly, contently, ready to regain consciousness. I frequently convince myself of things that make my life simpler; that I am cold, independent and indestructible to the core. And that I always have been. The vulnerability exhibited so openly and honestly in my accounts of youth are unsettling.
My sixteen year old imagined account of my future goes something like this:
i sprawl out to cover the part of the bed you just left.
it's warm and still smells like you.
i inhale deeply, to fill myself with you.
to others this could feel lonely,
but i'm surrounded in the silent promises
you flood throughout my room,
you flood throughout my room,
even in your absence.
i'm so in love with them. with you.
you are grace.
you are bliss.
you are love.
and after a while in silence,
i drift back to sleep with the quiet remnants of you
i drift back to sleep with the quiet remnants of you
on my sheets being gradually embedded within me,
joining the other traces of you
that live underneath my skin and flow through my veins.
(I didn't believe in capital letters when I was sixteen.)
The reality? Keeping in the context of the situation:
I hate taking showers
when I'm dizzy and I might throw up.
I should have drunk more water last night.
I just barely remember
sneaking out of bed
to put on makeup
before waking you up
and telling you to leave.
After this
I will tear the blankets off my bed,
stumble downstairs,
and shove them in the washing machine,
hoping to rid them
of your smell
and your skin cells.
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