before she had molded her identity into a cohesive thing, before she knew who she was and felt comfortable enough to speak loudly in large groups, she was just another awkward kid who mumbled her speech and coughed on every inhale of her aesthetic cigarette. she was always trying to time herself right, blend into conversations and laugh at all the right times, but every so often she'd lose her cool, start spinning around in circles until she was very, very dizzy and laugh loudly to a group of people who'd stare at her and each other out of the corners of their eyes, wondering what it was that was wrong with this girl.

she'd find solace in all the wrong things, and during late winter night when she hadn't seen the sun in days, she'd toss and turn on crinkled bedsheets and stare at the ceiling making shapes on the imperfections of the paint. seldom she would sleep a full night in that room, in that bed, and the times she really felt she'd lost all hope, she'd move from inside her bed, to under it, where she'd cuddle with the dust-bunnies and long-forgotten clothes until she'd black out in exhaustion.

sadly, much of her comfort was found in the lovers who would come fleeting into her life and take away more than they would ever give. however, she knew that besides the physical comforts these bodies would bring, she'd need to give them definition in more ways then her memories, they'd always be gone so soon. she'd keep souvenirs of each of the boys that slept in her bed, each one that made her face contort in funny shapes and her thighs quiver privately. she'd keep the bottles of soda they'd leave at her bedside, their empty packs of cigarettes, and she once even tried to give sentiment to the marks of a boy who wrote messages in permanent marker down her legs. but they only proved ephemeral.

in the lives of every being there is always the one that slips through your fingers uncontrollably, the one who brands the skin and lasts throughout the waking, dreaming thoughts. and she was no different.

he was a quiet boy who favored minimalism and always counted in pairs. she knew she was in love because when they kissed she'd keep her eyes open the entire time, just to see the faces that he made. they were volatile from the start which only proved to heighten her need to always be around him, their conversations remained informal and laconic. when they made love she'd grab his shoulder blades and stare at his barren white white walls wondering what it was she could take from their transient affair. after they tired themselves out, he would usually fall asleep right away, but her mind continued racing well into the night as she listened to the systematic order of his breathing patterns. first deep smooth breaths, followed by choppy, sharp inhales, let out in soft little bursts which kept his mouth entirely agape throughout the night. it was then she knew that the only thing she could take to memorialize this boy who had caused her so much grief and joy, was his oxygen. the next time she lay next to him she brought with her a mason jar, the kind she used to catch lightning bugs when she was small, and put it under his lips until the glass fogged up and she closed the lid. she labeled it "breath" but she'd never tell anyone exactly what it was.

later, she'd catch the breath of many lovers, but she'd only jar the one.

07/22/2006

Author's Note: a quasi-collab with the ever-lovely AB. an unintentional writing session followed by the question, "what if God was one of us?"

Posted on 07/23/2006
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