Glass

They promised us that after death, the stage would be reset, and I would be reborn.

There would be no more suffering, no more of that that thing we had grown accustomed to: pain.

But first, they handed us a paper:

I, Patient Number 001, I, the undersigned, I, the Body. I hereby declare that I will not come at you, Doctors, with Knives. I will Not Protest. My ghost will not haunt you, under the circumstance of my possible death.

I gambled. I signed. I didn’t believe in Ghosts anyway.

They threw their heads back, laughed in triumph. The Experiment was on its way.

Darkness came, I lost all five senses. Except my sixth –the sense that you were still there.

And with each cry that escaped my lips, you cried louder: your gasps echoed the murder.

They said you shouldn’t be in the OR and shoved you behind glass doors.

And then slowly, precisely, they cut through my flesh, and you bled.

All I heard were muffled screams and you, outside, begging to be let in.

Socks

 

You wake up one day, and suddenly, your feet do not belong to you. They are, most definitely, separated from your body. But no, that can’t be, because you look down, and yup, they’re still there. You touch, and you sniff them. They feel like they have been suffocating under woolen socks for years on end.

Okay, time to wiggle my toes, before I actually attempt the impossible: getting out of bed.

Each toe feels plastered to the other. And, as if they have plotted to work against my brain’s insufficient commands, they decide not to move.

Ugh. Not again.

I reach over, attempting to massage them. Nothing. They refuse to respond. I drag myself out of bed, knowing exactly what this means. Today, my feet won’t be able to touch the ground without feeling like I am wearing an infinite amount of socks. Blood stops rushing to them. And each step towards the door feels as though I am walking through water, and my socks are drenched in mud –my feet are heavy.

I open the door, to call for my mother. I need to tell her that I need help putting on my socks and shoes, because this looks like just another Multiple Sclerosis relapse.

if and then

There must be a reason for my masochism, because each and every one of them left me broken, shattered into pieces that I could hardly recognize as parts of me.

Adamantly, I denied my failures, labeling them all as ‘Experimental Errors’ and

dragged my heart behind me as I trudged along the same path, over and over again.

But maybe you should know that when I first heard your name, I doubted both your existence and my sanity.

Being obsessed with ‘truths’ and ‘proofs’ I asked you to simply Speak to me.

I wanted to spill your voice into my coffee and onto my white shirt (ever so plain) every day, every morning.

This made sense to a cynic like me

and I subscribed wholeheartedly to a handful of ifs and thens :

If I could taste you, then I could savor every stage up until that nanosecond, where I can’t separate your bitter-sweetness from my tongue’s numbness

if I could hold you, then I could plunge deep into the holiness of your majestic kingdom (the one you so admirably protect)

if I met you, then I could forgive the Universe’s way of teasing me, taunting me with figments and fragments of you.

And when I do taste you, I fear that I will leave your veins dried out as I drink from those holy waters (because I am selfish, you see, and I must resurrect the fire that used to be me)

and when I do hold you, I fear for your fragile bones in my savage hands, as I possibly fracture them once or twice to fit across our new-found land (yes, our)

and when I do meet you, I fear for your lifelong incarceration in my chambers.

But really, mostly – I fear fearing you, and my complete and utter paralysis in your presence.

Ink

There’s only one way to reach you

I attach syllables and letters,

Yet I stutter through my words

I tell you that I am articulate on paper

You ask me if people like that still exist,

In a time of sexual inflation,

When the spoken word beats the written word,

When sex forgets about foreplay,

When kisses become an inconvenience –

Yes, I still blush when you speak to me

I am flustered and dry-mouthed. I desperately need my ink.

I compose long messages and carefully penned paragraphs

I ask you a million and one Questions.

And I use that same ink to record your answers.

I keep a journal, so that I may carry you around in it, the folded pages embrace all you’ve told me, and the blank ones anticipate all you’ve yet to tell.

You’re wary, and afraid.

And I know we’ve both read more than we should, because there is such a thing as too ideal, as too delved in the world of words.

We lose track of the realm of possibility, of today.

So I pencil in our meeting date.

I wait to painstakingly inscribe my notes on your lips, on your hands, leave you stained with my ink.

And everyone knows how maddening it is to remove ink stains.

But I suspect you’ll want to keep me.