1.9.2014 Journal Prompt

Image from I'm The Same I'm An Other
Image from I’m The Same I’m An Other

January 9, 2014: She could sit for hours.

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One thought on “1.9.2014 Journal Prompt

  1. Lindsay

    Sister dear and sister damned, sits and sits, for hours sometimes, and sometimes for days. And she picks over her small and smaller worries, like a child picking black scabs from a grazed elbow or knee, and she is always talking to herself, in hush-shush whispers, saying the same thing over and over till the words get lost in the sounds she makes and then it is like music or song or wind sighing, but always sad sounds, too.

    Sister mine and sister malign, and there are days when she fears the dirt that is under her fingernails, and she thinks there must be, even though she has her nails cut so short they are to the quick and the ends of her fingers are red and angry and raw. But there must be dirt, she thinks, and so she washes and washes her hands, and scrubs with a stiff bristled brush, scrubs till there are tears in her eyes and her fingers bleeding, and still she scrubs.

    And she showers in water that is so hot it steams up the mirror, so hot it stings her breasts to pink and her back to blisters, and she cries like a sorry dog that is whipped for the wrong it has done. Sister sweet and sister sour, and she is always the centre of my world, and everything turns about her spinning moods, and there is not time for me just to fucking be.

    Worse today than the day before, it seems, and she sits and sits, on the cold bathroom floor, and she says no no no, and the thoughts in her head are all shaken. And she will not see him, she says, not though it is the third time that he has called. And she shrieks and covers her ears at the mention of his name. Not see Simon, not though her heart holds a skittery drumbeat when she hears he is waiting and she catches her breathless breath. And she shakes her head from side to side so that her hair is a flung tangled fleece across her face, and she says again no.

    And I think Simon deserves better and I would give him better if he’d let me. Simon with skin like a girl’s and his fingers tapered to elegant points, and he moves like a dancer, and he dances through all my dreaming thoughts where he takes my easy hand and he pulls me to him, and we kiss, dare to dreaming-kiss, and the whole world spins around me then. But sister kind and sister cruel will not see Simon today, turns him away.

    And she rinses her mouth with an antiseptic wash and she spits in the sink or swallows till her throat burns, and it is the fifth time this morning that she has done that; and she scratches at her neck and claws her cheek, and she mutters under her breath, and it is the one word said a thousand times over, and dirty dirty dirty she says, not forgiving herself for what she did or what he did. Last night, Simon, who must always be beautiful, and he stroked her cheek and her neck, soft as feathers in my dreams, and he kissed her lips and his tongue in her mouth, the sweet tasting teasing tip. And sister saint and sister sin, she washes the taste of him away.

    And Simon shrugs and walks from the shut door, and he takes her heartbeats with him, and I wish he’d take mine. And sister dear and sister damned sits and sits, and she listens, till she no longer hears his shrinking tip-toe softening steps.

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