deborah // 16 //x

e zan gne gno na wó

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7 . 23

the-zenroom   qs   ^__^   v much  

half of the people i know do not say my name when they speak to me and i am half afraid that they’ve forgotten it – or that i’ve never told them. my favorite color to wear is gray and i can’t think why except it’s warm, like campfire smoke, and my favorite crewneck sweatshirt is exactly that color. some of my tops i steal from my dad. actually – a lot of things i steal from my dad. we moved in october, after my stepmother decided she could no longer be the one to ask questions, two states up, and i decided to hate him for the rest of my life. it’s july now, and the whole southeast is drowning, trees collapsing under the weight of rains rolled over from hurricanes, grass mushy under our sandals as we tiptoe in the mornings. my father – all of sixty-something – has decided he does not really enjoy the off-ness of north carolina, that the sticky-warm prejudice of a state we have lived in nine years while he has popped in during the summer is much preferred. he hasn’t sold the old house, so the paint is there, the gold of my little brother’s room untouched, the master bedroom intact and fucking pristine. i hate him more – he moved the leather couches we’ve had since rwanda (or nairobi?) up two states then back again – i want him to make up his mind so bad i can taste it, like the samosas i learned to make in hani’s kitchen down the street last week, like the cake kelsi made my last day at school on october 7th.

but this is what we’re doing now, anyways. i sleep in my brother’s room, which is gutted, because my father threw away my old bed. i hate him for that too. when he is asleep on the couch downstairs, Fox 5 blaring, i sneak into their old room, stand in the bathroom and breathe in the scent of her makeup and perfume. i take his crewneck sweatshirt – gray – and think of january – cold. i take packets of photos from my childhood on another continent, i take condoms from the nightstand, i take mini-cassettes, i take my soccer trophies, my school ones – i take pushpins. the things pile up in my room – he comes in to tell me to fold his clothes, says i have a lot of stuff – which is normal for a girl, he supposes. i hate him more.

i promise myself half-heartedly that in august i will try not to, being 17 and newly minted with only a hard hope of getting away from the east, 35 or so playlists to get me through. i will remember the story i read – “the creation of ursa major.” the main character tells someone that he once told his mother he wanted to be dead – that sticks with me. he just liked the stars, but she didn’t know. i reach the end of the story, take in the slow narrative, the sneaking onto roofs, the comets, the museums. i want to be dead, too, like him. i want not to be compact and conquerable, wishing on birthday candles.

my fingers will be sticky until i leave with my sister again, and i will want the stuff to be sugar, but it will just be residue from this damned state, from the half-empty house where i first got my period and began to hate a woman who did not deserve it and fell in quasi-love and wished i took barbs, and everything else that my father will never ever get out of me. i feel him look at me sometimes. the day we were coming back his neighbor told him he sure spit me out. he knows, i think. he knows that my hands shake, that my fingertips stick, that i want to tell him how much i want to be dead.

i want to be a fucking constellation. the sheets on my brother’s bed are dotted with various sports equipment; i haven’t seen him in 10 months. i can’t sleep – i clean the whole house and then some on the first night but still when i get in the showers my palms looks grainy and washed out so i cannot look at them, the veins painfully obvious. i am a cluster of stars about to become a galaxy about to become a supernova about to be a black hole – to keep myself weighted, i think: half the people i know do not use my name when they speak to me; i worry this is because they’ve forgotten, or that i’ve never told them, but i smile to think they just want to hear my voice. my favorite color to wear is gray; my favorite crewneck sweatshirt is this color – like campfire smoke, like the summer before 7th grade. i steal things from my father in an effort to communicate how much i do not want to be his while trying to reconcile the fact that i am. i read a story about stars and comets and boys with smiles like sunbursts. i stole condoms – six in total but five now (a better number, anyways). i do not want to be anybody’s; i want to be the whole sky.

andromeda ( — the phenomenon of halley’s comet, of sirius and selene and venus and mars cookies)
7 . 23        6

7 . 12        4413

they say that this, too, shall pass not because it always does but
because the days roll like that, rain into clouds into dawn into the smell
of dew in the morning, waking up with your blinds open, again. it starts
somewhere, obviously, but that does not mean it has to end, so you
can breathe when may comes around - because may will come around
again, and you will have more ink and less sleep but it will get here,
slipping in the side door to push april away and suffocate you in the
best way, like coming home. they say a lot of things, but listen to them
anyway, sitting in the living room swirling your drink in a plastic cup.
if kisses taste like the shots you shouldn’t have had, remember that
at least tomorrow this will be a funny picture on instagram, a drunken
text from him that you save despite yourself.

("it’s called regression towards the mean, i think?")

7 . 10        1