I can’t repair, and I spot lies on the sides of skin cream bottles. Scars are reminders of parties I had but shouldn’t have had because something got broken or stained or smashed. Stitches are for hemlines, not arms, elbows and fingers.
You couldn’t tell, but my laser eyes regress weekly, and I’m not sure how much they can cut off surgically until they stop working altogether. I always thought the scar tissue grow back was the hoped for but actually it’s degenerate; Lindsay Lohan.
I’ve cried more at TV than when people left me or came back only to pack or didn’t call when they said they would. There was a time every dream was prophetic and each promise a bond, stocks, shares and superglue. But if dreams are truth I love twenty people since Wednesday and I end up with each and there’s no need to choose because I’ve the seamlessness of Chyler Leigh.
One day I’ll understand why I did it, reverted to the life I had, pretended I’d wanted it, that there weren’t pieces of me previously – my shirt buttons, shoes, elastic and stitching – that were all after you, ready to pinch you, shrink you in hot washes, seal you in packets and watch your breath collect as condensation in droplets at the bottom of bags. You made me forget the world ended as it ended around us and I never called your authority or questioned you having it and we didn’t need escape plans: I practiced balance with my yoga daily and I stretched you out on sleeping bags as my child slept and you said you’d play a part, you’d be a person I might need and you’d touch me when I asked and you’d have a flashlight handy and you’d walk me in the middle of the night when I needed a piss and you’d hold my unwashed hand on the way back, ready to own every inch as god watched. You’re dead now.