of his little exoskeleton bouncing off the radiator. Is that a message? We climb as high as comfortable, then attempt to pick our way down? Pick, place, footsteps so light and calculated, only to loose grip and plummet, just when we think we've got it?
An idle daydream, of Shae and I atop a cliff, my hands in his. I back up, shuffle closer to the edge, and he lets go rather than pull me to him. I fall, and fall, and close my eyes, and for a moment know that euphoria of free-fall, no memories, no flashbacks, nothing - simple fall of life down to definite death, quiet and accepting. I see him peering over the end of the world, stoic, face solid; I close my eyes and can positively HEAR the wind rush past me, positively FEEL my hair (oh fiber and protein, such a source of romantic intrigue) whip my face, arms; then feel nothing but the nothingness beneath me.
A trance, a trance like nothing but waking nightmares of my death, yet comforting and silent, because I am not the cause.
Teaching today, I take a wet canvas from a lazy, uninterested student - her monochromatic portrait in white and alizarin crimson stains my arms in blood-red slashes. Before I realize the paint is drying (acrylic, you now escape me in a way I never thought you could) thick lines like gashes of a razor crinkle crackle their plastic coating to my skin. I smudge, try to rub them out, and they only look MORE like the cuts I've been tempted to make. Even my mother comments when I'm home from work, knowing of my other run-ins with straight razors, pins, knives, scissors.
I wish, I wish, my anchor tattoo over my scars was enough to deter me. I thought it was; almost two years now of never taking a sharp metal to my soft, dull flesh. But I know one day I'll give in, one day will really be too much for me. And Miles will be busy, Tristan won't pick up, and Shae will simply be away.
An idle daydream, of Shae and I atop a cliff, my hands in his. I back up, shuffle closer to the edge, and he lets go rather than pull me to him. I fall, and fall, and close my eyes, and for a moment know that euphoria of free-fall, no memories, no flashbacks, nothing - simple fall of life down to definite death, quiet and accepting. I see him peering over the end of the world, stoic, face solid; I close my eyes and can positively HEAR the wind rush past me, positively FEEL my hair (oh fiber and protein, such a source of romantic intrigue) whip my face, arms; then feel nothing but the nothingness beneath me.
A trance, a trance like nothing but waking nightmares of my death, yet comforting and silent, because I am not the cause.
Teaching today, I take a wet canvas from a lazy, uninterested student - her monochromatic portrait in white and alizarin crimson stains my arms in blood-red slashes. Before I realize the paint is drying (acrylic, you now escape me in a way I never thought you could) thick lines like gashes of a razor crinkle crackle their plastic coating to my skin. I smudge, try to rub them out, and they only look MORE like the cuts I've been tempted to make. Even my mother comments when I'm home from work, knowing of my other run-ins with straight razors, pins, knives, scissors.
I wish, I wish, my anchor tattoo over my scars was enough to deter me. I thought it was; almost two years now of never taking a sharp metal to my soft, dull flesh. But I know one day I'll give in, one day will really be too much for me. And Miles will be busy, Tristan won't pick up, and Shae will simply be away.
