I carry a silver bell in my jacket pocket so that I’m touching magic all the time. They say warm words to me, promises like lyrics, and every time I love someone, I’m surprised; hearts don’t have walls. She walks in with her head and tail in the air and she goes straight for my throat. I think it’s because, when I talk to her, she feels the vibrations: human purring. The house glows in the sunshine; all our furniture screams family. My fingers tap in morse code as thoughts rise and glitter like dust motes. They always make me be Eliot. Enough with Lithium love; I want the real deal. Sometimes, the world goes silent and all I can hear is the Universe smile. I throw words onto the page like a failed Pollock. I think my hands are going to be cold for a little while longer.
‘Can I tell you about how I burnt myself while I was cooking?’
I laugh and say, ‘Burns aren’t eggshells, mother.’
She told me that whenever someone starts to tell her about their burns, they stop themselves. They deny themselves the right the complain. I kind of like that.