SUMMER IS OVER (september diary entry on how I wish you’d watch me sleep)

I keep every single piece of me in the attic. My limbs rest on the top of an old washing machine where your shirt got eaten by mold, my fingers separated with surgical precision touching the hem of a 2nd grade school skirt, my heart on a platter half-eaten, half-gorged, half-spat out by you to me, by me to you – I often forget. My brain breathes quietly at the edge of the stairs searching for my fingers for it is the only touch I’ve ever known. Go, go. A love letter is nothing but: `this stream of consciousness is for you only. Any part of my fleshy machine moves with the thought of reaching you, and me, and you.` I forget about death at these times. 

Forgive and forget the evil daughter of right and wrong. I am making to-do lists which I forget about because all of it is clinical. My mom carried it in her womb with me, I carried it from the hospital back home and wherever else I go. Summer is over! Oh, summer is over and now it's autumn and we didn't carry anything good with us here for it is all stuck in the ripeness of heat, for it was gorged by the sun and forever lost in its cloying taste.

There's an ambulance on the long road and where is the house it should get to? It takes 32 minutes by train and heart attacks bloom caskets in your chest by the time they arrive and your innards turn blue and so tingling you could mistake it for warmth. I don't like you coming here. If I die before they arrive make sure you cover your eyes. I don't know what's more intimate, someone watching you sleep or die? You could scream at me and I wouldn't hear you. You're free, you're free. I wouldn't judge either way.

Hello, thank you for picking up. I am on the train, yes. No, don't watch, don't watch. There is an ambulance at the barrier waiting for me to cross. Do I still have a pulse back home? Okay, good. I'll be there in 32.