May 9, 2012: Today. CWE 220

1.
You have been told to keep the goddamned doors shut. Do you think I can afford to air condition the neighborhood? I knot my fingers in my lap. I float above my chair. A slamming door sets my teeth on edge. My teeth are always on edge. That’s why they’re worn down, why they ache when I drink lemonade. You shouldn’t be drinking lemonade. It’s full of sugar. Someone is mad at me. Someone is always mad at me. He’s probably not mad at me. He probably doesn’t even notice me. Why would he notice me? I eviscerate everyone I meet. You need so much. It’s never enough. Put that knife away. I pushed a thin knife up her backbone, pulling out everything she had inside and piling it on the counter. I fingered my way through it, looking for what she had that I’m missing. Hairpins? Tea kettles? You made a mess. Clean that shit up. I am a shining, filleted fish laid out on a cutting board by the sink. My gills are fluttering. Stop fluttering. You can breathe just fine. I disgust everyone. My hair looks dirty. Did you rinse your hair? Go wipe up the bathroom floor. It’s all wet  My gums are too wet and shiny when I smile. They make people uncomfortable. They shine like something that should be hidden away in my pants. Close your legs. Hide your smile. There’s nothing to smile about. People see that I am awkward. I am a shattered teacup swept into a pile on the kitchen floor. I cut my tongue on broken teeth when I try to talk. I have nothing important to say. Blood pools. I know this taste. I told you to go wash your hair. I told you not to drink that lemonade. No one wants to talk to me. I say stupid things. There are too many awkward pauses. Stop bumping into the walls. Think about where you’re going. I could pack up my lunch in those pauses, that’s how big they are. Don’t forget your thermos. I don’t know. Put orange juice in it. I take shallow breaths and stand wide eyed and still. I try to float. Stop looking so scared. It makes you look weird. Don’t breathe so deeply. You are stealing all of the air. I steal all of the air. This is why no one wants to be in the same room as you. No one wants to be in the same room as me. Stop crying right now and if you keep crying I’m going to leave and not come back and I said to stop it. My tears are hot and oily. I have an oily face. My hair is greasy. You are making me sick. Jesus Christ. Just stop it.

2.
You are a pile of coarse knots. When a draft of air slams the door closed, your legs tighten like you’re a puppet on strings. I have told you to keep the goddamned doors shut. I can’t afford to air condition the neighborhood. You knot your fingers in your lap. You try to float over your chair. That slam sets your teeth on edge, doesn’t it? Your teeth are always on edge. That’s why they’re worn down, why they ache when you drink lemonade. I’ve told you before not to drink lemonade. And if someone is mad at you? They’re probably not mad at you. They probably they don’t even notice you. Why would they notice you? You eviscerate everyone you meet. I’ve never met anyone who needs so much. I told you to put that knife away. You push a thin knife up her backbone, pulling out everything she has inside her. I can’t get over you. Nothing is ever enough for you. You are a shining, filleted fish laid out on a cutting board by the sink. Your gills are fluttering. Stop fluttering. You can breathe just fine. You disgust everyone. Your hairs look dirty. No one likes little girls with dirty hair. I told you to take a bath. Did you rinse your hair? Your gums are too wet and shiny when you smile. It makes people uncomfortable. Your gums shine like something that should be hidden away in your pants. Close your legs. Hide your smile. There’s nothing to smile about. People see that you are awkward. You never say the right thing. You stumble over words. Your teeth are broken. You cut your tongue on your teeth when you try to talk. Blood pools on the floor of your mouth. I told you to go wash your hair. I told you not to drink that lemonade. No one wants to talk to you. There are too many awkward pauses. Stop bumping into the walls. Think about where you’re going. You could pack up your lunch in those pauses. Don’t forget your thermos. I don’t know. Put orange juice in it. You take shallow breaths and stand wide eyed and still. Stop looking so scared. It makes you look weird. You are stealing all of the air. Don’t breathe so deeply. This is why no one wants to be in the same room as you. If you don’t start to act normal, I’m leaving. I won’t come back and stop crying right now and if you cry I won’t come back and I said to stop it. Your tears are hot and oily. You have an oily face. Your hair is greasy. You are making me sick. Jesus Christ. Just stop it.

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