Wednesday, 4 June 2014

Through Your Eyes

I try to look at this room through your eyes, as if by doing so I can catch a glimpse of the person that I am.

—the person that I am to you.

I look at the things in this room as if they were not my things.

    As if the things in this room were ciphers through which my heart could be decoded.

Look at this scarf tossed across the bed, casually, like it was tossed there by an errant movie star, (like it had never been knotted around an ankle.)

    Look at this loofah: this immense sand whale taking dock in my bathroom, winking about exfoliation, bellowing about skin.

        Look, these floors, scattered with cableties and bottle openers, scattered with the petals of broken flowers.

    What kind of a me would use any of it?

I look at this room through your eyes and I see myself, this girl, here in the room before I have arrived.

    This girl smells of eucalyptus bath soap and lime pulp beneath her fingernails.

        This girl is shrouded in typewriter letters and seven-sided dice.

    This girl tries so hard to be a creature who is capable of love.

I am in this room, looked at through your eyes, reduced to a series of things placed out like the pulled husks of teeth.

I ask myself who I am and the answer bounces from one thing to another before returning to my ears.

    Echolocation.

I twitch my ears and travel, like a bat, to the other side of the room.

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