Cardboard Box Pride
yesterday, after two bottles of wine i decided to go to theater - what a amazing evening. or you can call it the "drug, sex and rockn roll" day
A tablet on my tongue. I think I have been dipping too long Al.
And there he was. Something about the way my body was built made me feel half clag. I was recycled paper just pasted together. Pass me a pin and I could pop us both, crazy falling balloons is all we would have been, empty air filled our rubber remains. Al, thick shoulders, a hooded jacket, he was rolling a joint. Arm and hands, sex that never ended and was rarely enjoyed. Him in me, the feeling of being intoxicated by someone, the night he put his hands on my throat and squeezed. My own eyes bulged at his act. I could hear the rising falling rhythm of his pleasure, like a purr. My face in the pillow as I tried to pretend tomorrow would be different. Perhaps it would have been different had he touched me. Perhaps it would have changed everything if when I woke he’d lean over and acknowledge the life which pulsed beside him, the deafening clock listened, witnessed, ticked.
Stu and his hands, the ignorance of my own act of ignoring. Stu with the bleached hair and the yellow teeth, Stu who laughed like a Hyena, a warning laugh. Pass me anther pill Stu, pass me some more powder. Did your dog just eat that pill?
We arrived in a car, Row Jess and me, women with one thing in common. The men. KT throbbed inside my head, the time I slept with the stranger as she screamed outside the tent. My face against the tarp, his own jokes, my ignorance. The time I sat in Danny’s caravan and smoked a joint whilst he touched her in the room next door.
Then the car with Jess and Row. The smoking room of our local. Peter, I think his name was Peter, the old man, grey hair, smoke stained hands and a withered face. He sat in the corner with the crooked smile and the Kelpie. Peter the old man who opened his hand to me and fed me dried up mushrooms one by one. His wife had gone, she left many years ago and his dog had stayed. I visited his house later too, the road covered in snow as I trooped around the little town searching for number 55. Darkness and ice roads. The very same slippery ice roads Al had held my hands along and taught me to sneaker ski. The dried up garbage bag Peter had pulled from underneath his couch and fed to me some more. My own eyes which flittered under their lids.
Later that night after my boss refused to talk to me, left, shunned in the bar, Adam’s face dripped off, Vic told me she’s found arms and legs in the park and Ange told me I wasn’t needed at work anymore. The guy called Pasta that turned out to be her boyfriend, the guy called Pasta who walked me home past Hannah’s house and fucked me. Hannah found my phone in the snow.
Hannah, the girl who kissed me tasting of another woman and thought I wouldn’t notice. The newspaper collage of sex and hands and backs. The backs, the backs lay stark against my sheets. Their indent made my bed lopsided and cold air wafted in amongst the sweaty limbs. The salt that bled from my own eyes. The joke made the house laugh, the rafters shook and turned and laughed at my breasts as he glared at the sticky stain on my stomach. A sock is thrown. Al is no longer ecstasy. Al is just Al now and I don’t like him anymore. The real Al reminds me of the tightening hands and the fear.
Amongst all the sordid fucking all the whispered lies, the shoulders and arms, hands pushed up bare thighs and wet sheets Pippa lay beside me in my own clothing and cried. It all just turned into a jumble of black holes, Stevens accusations of my own infidelities whilst every night he ran home to his wife. Every second night his wife got out of bed and touched their son who had wet himself. Steven sniffed coke in their bathroom beside the ten person Jacuzzi.
Sick of the blood tests and Doctors eyes, my immune system faltered so much earlier than my mums. The doctors asked questions. The answers? I don’t know. The past ran away and now all I have left is the charcoaled remains of its corpse. About as good as wet card board. It died and I didn’t even grieve properly. My body’s tiny cigarette butt holes that sit inside my lounges like a VIC health ad. The vomiting and foods they tell me not to eat, the jumble of unanswered questions. Haze. What actually did happen that night? Sticky hands and empty thoughts.
We were all just cardboard cut-outs having sex and saying, “I love you”. Snorting coke and taking our clothes off