dance with me

She turned around at the sound of the patio door opening and stared at him.  He was a shadow against the background of the darkened room.  As he walked towards her, she put out her cigarette to welcome the chance of embracing him completely.

“Will you dance with me,” he whispered in her ear.
“There’s no music.”
He let out a small chuckle and said, “We’ll make our own.”

His humming echoed in her mind as he led her around the area of the patio.  The bright light of the supermarket next door highlighted them, as if they were in a spotlight.  She quietly sang lyrics into the air, trying to capture the moment in her words.

the first

written August 27, 2004

The first cut is always the one she hesitates in making.  In that moment of hesitation, she realizes what she is about to do and knows that she can stop at anytime.  She knows that she can put back the eyebrow trimmer into the pencil case, turn off the light, go to bed, and attempt sleep.  But she also knows that she would stare at the ceiling, feeling nothing but an unsaid pain that was incomprehensible. 

Placing the blade on the tender skin at the top of her wrist, she draws it down towards the fold of her elbow.  Now, it was easy to repeat the motion; it became mechanical.  The cuts made her skin tingle with a euphoric sensation.  Her breathing became steady and deep, her tears stopped.  She was calm.

“no one’s picking up the phone / guess it’s clear he’s gone
and this little masochist / is lifting up her dress
guess I thought I could never feel the things I feel”  ~t. amos