When we first broke up, I didn't sleep for a week straight. I visited a therapist and talked about you for hours and as she listened, I ended my speech with "but I've moved on." She says I clearly haven't and it's obvious I care or else I wouldn't have the energy to talk about you. I guess I know I still care and know I haven't moved on, but with every word I use, I hope I will convince myself that I am done with you.
I remember reading the ad on the train cart for breast implants and you told me you'd hate me if I got mine done. You said you hoped that I knew that I shouldn't be something I was not. But as I took your advice, you reconsidered your words.
Now every time I pass by your stop, I look down watching the shoes shuffling in, hoping that I see your pair of Moccasins I have engraved in my mind. I remember you watching them ripping at the seams. You said they were too comfortable to throw away. But when you saw me falling apart it didn't feel as comfy as your slippers, so you kept the shoes and got rid of me. And I remember the moles on your back and how I watched them like night sky, and as I touched them I thought this is the closet I'll ever get to touching the stars. And as I watched trees losing their mind in the wind, I found icicles resembling daggers underneath your car. Like everywhere you went you kept secret swords to rip the world to shreds. And I still have the flannel you gave me cause I liked the color and how it brought out the red in your cheeks, and as I stare at each box that makes up the shirt, I remember the checklist we made that night. The checklist of each place we promised to kiss, but now I see it as a checklist for every place you used as an excuse to spit poison down my throat. And you promised you would create art with me and use me like acrylic paint, but the more you used me, I began to turn into watercolors until there was nothing left. And I remember telling you about the stars in the sky and the universe and the way the galaxy traveled throughout my veins as if it were in my blood. But now I can't watch the moon because they remind me of your eyes. I used to find beauty in the milky way, but now it reminds me of the cruelty in your movements.
We went to a street a fair in the summer... I remember watching a plain stick being created into a masterpiece as it turned into cotton candy. We watched the stick together as it turned in perfect harmony, creating the only treat that could resemble a cloud. I remember my pupils becoming so involved with the creation that I swore I felt my eyes becoming the masterpiece in front of me. But I knew my eyes were still brown. I knew that I could never give you the beauty you wanted to see. I knew you would never feel so involved with me that I could become the pupils of your eyes. And as the cotton candy melted in your mouth, I knew that I never would.
On Wellington Street
“The train car slowly makes it way along the tracks, the walls of the tunnel passing by the broken windows one brick at a time. The air that seeps in is foul, like sewage. I look down at the seat, white interior breaking through the green vinyl. I want to sleep. I want desperately to sleep. But I can't. Because everyone else went to sleep and now they are gone. Just scattered, crumpled newspapers and magazines along the ground, small splotches of blood where bodies should be.
Bodies...Why did I get rid of the bodies? I don't remember getting rid of them. Were they just sleeping?
The train horn cuts through the tunnel. It is stifled, like it is running on dying batteries. The air is thick, and I can't help to notice that through the doors I can see into the other car. And another. And another. The cars have no end. I am tired. I consider going into the other cars but I will stay put. The ticket taker will come along soon. I just pray the light doesn't burn out. I can't imagine how much worse it would be in the dark.
My eyes drift around the car to the baggage wrack above the central walkway. Old, worn cases sit in a scattered arrangement, dust filtering down from them every time the train hits a turn. I let my focus dull as I watch the dust filter through the light and to the ground. I think I hear murmuring coming from another car, but that couldn't be the case. No one is here but me. I stand up to stretch my legs, and I notice that one of the handbags is leaking.
I go over and reach around the edge of net, dragging the handbag through the space between. It catches temporarily, but a few jiggles and it falls loose. I set it down and open it up, using a piece of newspaper to look inside. The inside is sticky, and I decide to remove some items. A wallet. A compact mirror. I go to draw out a long brush when something inside the handbag stirs. I fall back, as nothing more occurs. Then out from inside of the handbag comes the sound of something speaking.