incomplete.

Sometimes I write in darkness as white ink flows from my fingertips. A single candle is lit on my table, praying to soothe me with the warmth it blows into the air, into my skin darkened from the powerful sun, into counterclockwise tendrils of black that breathe in the sweet scent of warm vanilla and graze the tiny goosebumps that cover my flesh as I tilt my pounding head in another direction. The fan hums softly and occasionally rattles my bare legs, cooling what is already too cold, tickling freshly cleaned pores, sending sheets of dense music in frantic swirlings around the cluttered room. I am never alone. Sometimes she plays games to see how long she can deprive herself of all that is necessary. They never end well, she never learns. She continues to wince in pain, force the bile back down, never allowing it to escape before the sun shines at a desirable angle. Sleepless nights are all she knows, strangers beside her, no one beside her, she continues to look away and pretend that it’s all an ugly illusion, pretend she isn’t still the hopeless girl trying to shatter the bottle of shame that she keeps tightly capped, conveniently hidden . In the morning she hides under the comfort that is slowly tearing, fading away just like memories of long hair, flushed cheeks, and the slow acts of love, sometimes quick, never old. For those twenty minutes, she is as pure as the water hitting her from the opening above, the silver soothing her with a gentle stream of rebirth, allowing her to bask in the removal of all that is sinful. It is here that she makes discoveries of softness and hardness, it is here that she finds dark bruises from last night’s inexplicable journey. She recalls the period of time when she didn’t know any better, then realizes that her empty eyes watch better float away every day, never chasing after it, but always savouring the moment when it is so close that she can graze its face with her calloused fingertips. Never seems to reach far enough, it is always that single second of hesitation that wraps its arms tightly around her waist and jerks her back to old habits, raw skin, unprotected rides of pain and pleasure. There is another world, she is sure of it, a world that longs to sweep her in with the sweetness of fresh lilies and the dramatic romance that seeps out of Russian fingertips and into eager ears, to seduce her with soft fingers that extend over her bare flesh and bring her to gasp loudly.