Yesterday I walked for hours. I wanted to walk to the horizon. I tried. I poured music into my ears, pumping notes onto the pavement. Blinded by the lights of strangers, I smiled; cars that pass in the night. Sometimes I ran, letting the sky flow into me like breath. I saw the debris of a crash: glass shattered into a thousand pieces. I pretended they were diamonds and I jumped on them, feeling the crunch; smashing jewels- so powerful.
I wanted to walk to the horizon but I didn’t. Somebody stopped me. So instead I drank gin, my first time, in a bar that took so many of my virginities. And I talked. I did not let my hair fall just so to hide my face. I did not drape my voice in innuendos. I did not curl my words into vague spirals. I just talked. Simply. Openly. Without a fierce desire to seduce and destroy.
The evening melted and flowed and we ended up at an old house where I saw my life in every room: a library, a billiard room, a bar. I heard people I haven’t met yet on the stairs. I painted the walls in avocado green and wheat blonde and red hot chili red. I felt the breeze billow in on spring afternoons. I heard jazz in the air. I dreamed.
He held my hand and tested floorboards to lead me to the balcony on the other side. He kissed me there, under the stars, in a broken house that wasn’t ours. It was awkward because I smile when I kiss, and our lips don’t know each other yet. But our arms were unrelenting. Our bodies gripped each other and our hands roamed from back to neck to hair, erasing the space between us. Every now and then we paused and said something silly and smiled. His eyes were so close I had no idea what colour they were but I could see the reflection of the moonshine winking. So I winked back.
I didn’t run.
I didn’t run because I wasn’t thinking about anything but the sky and his hands and my smile. I didn’t think about how I might feel tomorrow, in the daylight, with my doubts and scars naked for me to dissect. I didn’t think about what this meant or who was going to fuck up what. I didn’t assume it was going to be me. I just listened to his compliments and I blushed and I reminded myself that they are words, just words.
Although to say that, to say just words seems like a strange thing for a writer to state, because words aren’t just what I do, they’re who I am; they’re my breaths. Then again, I guess that words can mean everything to me and not much to someone else and I suppose that this is what is happening now with me and all the shit I hear. And that makes me sad because I don’t want this to be the year that I stopped believing on top of everything else. I don’t want to be told I’m sweet or pretty or different and react like a little girl, all the while, hearing that voice in my heart whispering: this means nothing. They are just words, temporary words.
I think if I could marry a book, I would. Words or no words, I guess he was right about one thing: I am a bit odd.