Ikäraja: k11
varoitukset: syömishäiriö, itsetuhoisuutta, kuolemasta mainintaa
saattaa ehkämahdollisesti jatkua, tiedän, tää on vähän omituisen tökstöks ja öö? Anyway oon lukenut ihan liikaa richard sikenin runoja ja yhyy halusin kirjottaa joten kirjotin! :D
nimi on daughterin biisistä landfill
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You're frail, sitting on the kitchen counter, staring at the apples in the bowl like they disgust you. Your wrists against your thighs; they look like I could snap them in half if I tried hard enough. Not even too hard. Just hard enough. Darling, don't do this.
The dog is looking at you like you stepped on it; always the dog, it's always the dog. You won't look at it but it's looking at you, and I think, stupid dog. Stupid dog and stupid you, but especially stupid you.
The dog will leave. It will get up and walk slowly into it's bed. I know this because I've watched it happen so many times. The dog can't make you to get up. The dog can't make you eat. Let's look at this realistically, honey, I can't make you do any of those things either.
Let me drift back in time. Let me make you happy again. Give me that knife. Let me carve your face into the wall you painted white. Let me carve your face into the thick wood of that kitchen counter you're sitting on. Let me carve our names on the tree just outside. Tell me you've been stupid, let me cure you, let me bake you that stupidly sweet banana cake you love so much. Lets take the dog for a walk; lately he's been almost as lonely as me. Let's fall into the bed and never get up. Let me kiss your neck and ribs and hip bones. Let me smooth down the planes of your back. Let me count your freckles again.
We both know how it will end. We have both seen the movie. We have read the book. There will be nothing but sad and tears and we'll all be alone. Everyone will leave. They'll all die. You, too, and me, and everyone. The dog will die. None of us is immortal.
Let me have you just a while longer. Look at me. You're drifting away, your wrists and ribs and collar bones, all of them visible under my hands, hard and unforgiving.
I watch movies alone. You sit on the kitchen counter, your eyes glossy and hardly moving. You eat a apple. You throw up the apple. You cry. I know how this goes. I know how much you hate it when I tell you I love you. I do it anyway. I tell you the plots of the movies I've watched before all this and you smile a little. Your eyes are red and wet and sad, and the stupid, stupid dog is sitting on your lap.
Where were you? In the bathroom. Where are you? In the bed, curled up around the extra pillow like a kitten. I curl up around you and breathe into your neck and you shiver.
Don't sink any lower. I can hardly see your head as it is.
You say you hate metaphors. I tell you that you're stupid. I say it many times. I lose count. I cry into your chest.
Your hand moves through my hair, tangles into the knots and I wonder if you hate me. I think of things I could never say aloud. You say them for me.
---
We're in a car and you're singing.
It's October and the windows are already frozen. Your face is absent. Your feet are hanging off the car seat. Your voice is colder than the wind.
The radio is on and you're singing along. I can feel your voice cracking at times. It's because you haven't slept. I know this, because I woke up at three am just to watch you slip into the room with white snow running down your pale neck before disappearing under your shirt.
You say; "show me something". I ask you, "what do you want to see?" and you say "anything". So I take you by the wrists and tug you closer. You see me. I don't see you. I don't look at you.
Give me the rusty knife. I can see it, the rust dripping from your eyes. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about; I can see it.
You stop singing. I apologize. You stay silent. I slam my fist into the fabric of my seat. You flinch. I pull over. You look out of the window.
We stay there for a very long time until the sun begins to set and people run into their homes and really, who am I to fool anyone? You get to keep your knife. I get to keep you. If that isn't a painful compromise I don't know what is.
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We're in a big room of golden walls that we don't deserve.
We don't have money and you curl up into my side, I feel the shivers of your body run through my frame. You're cold because you're so thin. You're thin because you don't eat. You don't eat because you don't believe me when I tell you how thin you are. Would you believe me if I said that you're fat? You would. I know this. I'm not proud of it. I tried. I swear, darling, I tried to help.
We're in a big room where everyone gets what they deserve.
You get roses. I get thorns. We know how it goes. The one who survives is the hero. The one who tries to help is the villain. I'm sorry, that came out wrong. Let me tell it to you again someday.
Let me tell you about that dream again. Let me tell you how we both die someday. Preferably together in some kind of heroic way. Romantic in a way teenage girls will sigh when they read about us. We can fall from the rooftop. We can swallow the sleeping pills I know you still have under your bed. We can swallow them together and dream about each other. Let me tell you how I wake up in the cold. Your body is shivering in my hold, well, that much is true. The walls of our bedroom are still dark. I whisper it into your ear.
You don't answer.
----
The dog dies.
We have a little funeral for him. I don't know why it's so important to call the dog "him" now, but somehow it is. He's dead. Lets have some respect. I build a dog of straws. I give it to you. You don't look at it.
I clean up the kitchen. You stay on the kitchen counter and I kiss you when I move past you. I wait for the dog to come and try to steal you from me. It doesn't. I get a little sad. I don't know why; all these years the dog has been the metaphor for everything that's wrong in our lives. It doesn't exist anymore. We'll have to start using proper words again. Like anorexia nervosa. Or depression. Or suicidal. I don't know. I'm still waiting for the dog to come back. I think I could like it now.
Let me run you a bath. Let me sink into the bubbles next to you. Let me wash away the illness like you used to wash away my illness when I got the flu and moaned into your neck because living hurt. Is it how you feel? Everything hurts but I can't wash it away? I'm sorry, darling. I made you tea with honey in it. Come drink it with me. I still love you even when you're sick. Let me kiss you. I can't catch depression.
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