lucy

Something I wrote today.


So there was I the sun caressing my face like an impassioned lover, the wind whispering dirty secrets throughout my blaze of hair. percariously perched on the unforgiving bench, the rigid slats of the seat branding my tender ass surely as the paddle the night before.
I closed my chameleon eyes and let the waves of guilt tease my arousal-dampened body, choking on the bitter and the sweet. I watched the faceless hordes of humanity drift by, I- no more than your generic college kid scribbling in a notebook, a drop in a sea of millions; a flash of a smile, quick; almost imperceptible nod; worth a passing glance, perhaps, but no more to be sure.
Abut ah, you are all so much more to me.

Strange how Mother Earth changes her colors when you dabble in dreams. If one can learn to evolve, to push folish inhibitions, insecurities away, Nature delights in a spiritual striptease, sliding her drab green gown to the floor and allowing one, voyeuristic, to gaze ntently at her shimmering nakedness. No more facelessness now, no; only a world of potential loves. Even the briefest flashes of skin are erogenous, whispering a million secrets of pleasure to the initiated. The hollow of a knee, the elegant curve of a spine into well-worn denim, the press of a breast shaping a white woolen sweater- all conspire to heat my blood, make my pulse race, make my heart pound. As I watch hips of a young girl sway slighly as she walks past, I think of her and feel my nether lips thicken and throb, like the lump in my throat that now prevents me from calling her for the eleventh time today. Ah, well. No good to trouble her with the mosquito buzz of a ringing phone anyway, when I have nothing to say. I have called and hung up enough times for today as is.

I have forever prided myself on being emotionally stable, never feeling guilt or regret. Forever was a long time until she walked into my life.
She had he ability to make me feel anything.

It was sometime this morning when I realized finally that she probably didn't miss me at all.

I think back to two years ago- a flash of blue hair I wanted to swim in, inky eyes that told of promises unspoken, mouth made of cherries and sin.
"I love your hair color- I have never seen such an alluring shade of blue."
"Thanks, I like yours...it matches my lips."
And so it did, quite perfectly and seamlessly as we were to fine out later, in the dim light of her basement apartment, after I breathlessly pulled my swollen lips away from hers long enough to ask her name. Logan...the way her name rolled off of her tongue sent shivers down my spine. Something woke in my body that had not existed before. Genuine tenderness behind the animalian lust.
I woke up with a plate of warmed- up Pop-Tarts and a glass of soy milk. I remember her smiling apologetically as she said, "I'm sorry. I know it sounds silly, but I can't cook eggs. They always burn."
We spent the day together, and the next night until our relationship grew and she told me she was falling in love. "You aren't weirded out now, are you? I can understand if you are. This whole situation is new to me, I've never been in love with a girl before."
I laughed as I told her that I knew I was in love with her long ago, that I was hers with a passing glance and a cute quip about my hair and her lips.

Her lease was up.

"It just makes sense to move in with me", I argued. "You're here all the time anyway."

She called my brother, and the three of us moved in her couch, her art books, her canvases, and her collection of dimestore porcelain mice. We made love every night, her legs winding around mine as she made sounds that would bring blood to the cheeks of both nuns and whores. I remember how she would giggle as I blew raspberries on her belly, watching her squirm as I kissed her right below her ribcage. I would make her pad thai for dinner and in return, she would please me by heating up Pop-Tarts.

Until the day I found her crying on the floor, curled up into a ball on the floor, her inky eyes wet and bloodhsot. "I'm pregnant, Jessica, three months along" she said. I laughed at her, cupping her fevered little cheek in my marble hands. "Sweetie, that's nonsense. You can't be pregnant, we're both girls. Why, to do that, you would have to sleep with a m..." Then I looked at her, really looked at her, and the guilt and self loathing registered on her face and I found myself bitterly spitting out, "Slut."
I thought back, trying to imagine who could have done this..who could have destroyed her, my pristine black and blue angel. Then I remembered....a smile between her and my brother, casual embraces that lasted too long, and all the xcuses he had to come over to 'repair' things that us girls could not do.
"It was Eric, wasn't it?" I asked. She nodded through her tears.
At that moment, my sanity snapped. Rage blinded my eyes, glazing them with maliciousness and a thirst for pain, to give her a taste of the pain she gave me. Through my anger, I heard screams and breaking glass and the sickeningly metallic smell of blood, so much blood...she lost consiousness just as I regained my senses.

My brother called me from the hospital three days later. "Well, Jessica, she's now in stable condition, no thanks to you, and she's not pressing charges. But I hope you're happy, the baby is gone. She's moving in with me. Don't ever try to talk to her again."

That blasphemer...to think that I would ever hurt her, my love, my angel. His touch destroyed her. Not mine. Why could he not understand that?

I spent the next week in a haze of rum-induced erotic rampages, booze mixing with soft thighs and early mornings on the subway in last night's clothes, reeking of cigarette smoke and sex. I hated going home. My apartment smelled of her, and the broken shards of her porcelain mice looked at me with accusatory eyes.

Last night I came home from one of my bouts of debauchery to find her clothes missing and a plate of pop-tarts on my pillow, long since cooled.

So now I deny myself the release of the last month.
I go home, and the phone rings. My breath catches in my throat as I pick it up?
"Hello?..." My voice croaks.
"Hello, this is InterTel mobility calling, would you like to take a survey?"..I hang up the phone and go to my room. The Pop Tarts are still there. I pick one up and bite into it.
I think of heating them up as I gag from the taste. Cold Pop-Tarts are disgusting. I think of Logan, of the mice, of her blue hair, her inky eyes, her blood staining my carpet. I think of my brother, of the child she was to have, of the promise of new life I destroyed within her.

I eat them cold.

Lucy Suicide, 2004