69: Have a little Decency Crybaby, Mind Your P’s and Q’s
‘So which half do I get first?’
‘Who says you get any half?’
‘I say, babyboy. You’ve got my little noggin in-between your legs, don’t you? I get whatever I please. Don’t play like I’m not in complete control.’
‘Fine. Which do you prefer, real life or dreams?’
‘Remind me again, what exactly is the difference?’
‘Well, as far as I see things, real life is whatever we dream it to be. Most bodies have forgotten dreams. Most realities are being run on another’s version, spinning webs, making us all weave one giant sticky thing. All we do now is catch each other, suck the blood out; suck each other dry. All we do now is survive.’
‘The half of the stupid chicken story that’s already been told, is it a survival story?’
‘Totally.’
‘Lets start with that then. I prefer my endings sad. I prefer it when reality lets me see a living that suffers. I ache to dance joyfully in the pain, but I refuse to look away.’
‘Look at me!’ I scream. I grab her little face between both my palms and stick it right in front of mine. Our noses are touching. Her breath reeks of the blood spilling out of me, inching down my thighs. I stay inside and bleed free. I sit on white towels and meditate my own indecision. Deciding again and again, I cannot bring another child into this world. But the baby in your dreams, who is she? Not now. Not here. I won’t play unless it’s my own creation I will decide and decide again and again and again. I will never give up this ache to prove myself wrong. This longing that pulls my guts closer to every bit of flesh around me, to see another’s truth so vividly that it becomes my own. Momentarily. I take what I can hold. The rest I have to let go. Then I have to go. ‘Don’t go!’ she screams. ‘I haven’t sucked you dry yet. When my tongue runs the length of your inner thigh, you cannot stop pouring yourself out for me. Is this how you beg when I’ve stolen every word? You taste so sweet it’s sickening! The blood evens it out in mixing. Bleeding is a reminder. Memory is alive. Death lets every ounce of blood go. Stay, my love. Die with me.’
Her words are warm, but I can’t pull a bit of sense from them. Staring into her baby blue eyes, I start weeping. ‘What do you see, when you put away every screen on the planet and look this close at every living thing instead; people’s faces. What do you see when you stop stuffing yourself with silicone and cotton and let yourself bleed all over your favorite rug, your neighbors bed, your best friends toes, your lovers face.’
‘I see your story.’
‘I haven’t even started it yet.’
‘Words aren’t necessary, weightless and completely and utterly useless mostly. The soul speaks with the motion of the home it sits in. The spirit yearns to break the boundaries, the separation; skin drives me fucking crazy! I want to rip you open and feel everything.’
‘But then I’d die.’
“Yes. Then you’d die. Then we’d find each other again. Then I’d take another blade to you abdomen, then I’d stick my fist in and grab hold of what’s real, what’s mine, leave the rest behind. This world we live in, it’s no place for a girl like you. I stay. I want to run away with you! Your flesh and bones keep running and screaming, ‘stay away!’ You’re bleeding. You’re alone. You’re scared. You miss the love of your life, children running free, the mate to your soul. You remember her forgetting everything every single day. You remember forgetting. You won’t want to die. You spend the whole time dreading it. I spend the whole time jumping the notion of clocks ticking. Shh. I’m trying to think. I’m trying to sink into life, dying is necessary. Death is the most beautiful part in the way that we dance between the stars. You’ve got this mortality thing all wrong.’
‘Maybe. But if you kill me now, you’ll never know what happens to the boy in the woods.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m not chicken. I’ll write the rest right now if I like.’
‘Ha! You’re cute, but you’re not that cute kid. You and I both know; I haven’t dreamt that yet. You and I know this all must start with a bunch of rushed texts from behind the bar.’
‘Your memory is shit pony boy. I was already tucked in when I told you that story. I cut it off with a goodnight, remember? We slept apart. The next morning I shit first thing, just like I planned. The next morning you woke up and I was gone. Tough shit. Stories go on and on and on and love is flesh that sticks together. Cup the breasts of your lover with both hands and never let go! Scream into their tender thighs until they get up to walk away. Then get down on both knees and weep like a bratty baby, beg them to remember. Kick and spit and remember your shit on their sheets, walk barefoot and bleed onto the streets, do whatever it takes to force the whole fucking world to remember love. We’ve all bloody forgotten a need for the thing. Our memories jumped into a tiny screen and left us all behind to rot and die. Cry, little baby, it’s the only medicine there is.’
‘Have a little decency crybaby, will you please. Mind your P’s and Q’s.’