i think i’d like to do quiet things someday. pack gift boxes full of snowglobes and postcards and the other kinds of things that remind me of people. run around a little, then stop with my hands on my knees, hunched over panting. when i clock out at the end of the day, and make the trip down the city to the hole in the wall i’ve made home, will i wave to people? will people wave to me?
when i get older, if i get older, will i have the courage to step into a public swimming pool? no one’s eyes will be on me as i make the careful steps down the blue stairs, and my swimming cap fits right without digging into my forehead or nape.
maybe i’d schedule my day around eating a pomegranate sometimes. i don’t like pomegranates but i don’t like who i am either, that’s the way things are. with juice stained hands, i’d grab onto a stray towel on the bathroom rack and leave it there. when i find it later, eyes bleary, i’d laugh a little. the remnants of the pomegranate incident marked on this out-of-place white towel.
i can’t wax poetic about life, i’ve never enjoyed it- the supposed sacred art of taking a breath and expelling it through a sniffly nose, or the tickle of baby hairs against my forehead as i sink into the pillow after a hard day- all it does is leave me thinking, these little sensations don’t matter, no one’s looking at me,
the next day, i’d find the white towel again. this time it hangs a little more stiffly, and i can see the marks of my pomegranate hands darkened into an ugly purple. i ball it up and aim for the hamper, does it go in or not?
i don’t check. i never check.
