Holding Soft Things with Rough Hands

A piece of me that chipped away and balled into this.

When I turned 22, I realized I was dead.

It was as if my body had been moving while I lay somewhere curled in the corner of my mind, weeping. Pieces of me had chipped away over the years, and now I’m constantly unraveling as my pieces no longer fit completely. I still cannot tell the difference between being lost and dead.

Taking a Nap by Annie Lee

I’d been craving brownies for weeks. So I caved one night at 10:30 p.m. using a recipe from a thrift store recipe book. Love Island played low in the background. I hummed as I stirred, pouring my leftover coffee into the chocolate batter. Then my TV glitched. It was only a millisecond, but the silence between me, the kitchen, and the world was so loud, still, separate, somehow we were together. The sound returned, and I was alone. There was laughter coming from the next apartment over, a simple, human laugh. A natural occurrence. A beautiful feeling, sound, a medium to love. And it made my heart drop into my stomach.

I cried into the batter.

There was no one there, but still I tried to silence my screams. Heaving over my sweet treat as my dinner burned on the stove. Then I laughed. I laughed as I put the brownie pan, still slippery with butter, into the oven, realizing that this was truly my life, and I was somehow living it in the worst way possible.

I cannot remember the last time I truly laughed. A guttural scream, one of pure enjoyment without thinking about whether I had looked pretty while laughing, or was too loud. A good laugh, one that makes everyone else start laughing, and now you’re all suppressing tears, someone’s stomach has begun to hurt, and now everyone is shushing each other. Someone stands to get away from you, as you cannot stop laughing, and another is bent over, heaving. The room is practically silent now as none of you had inhaled to gather the breath to make sounds. I cannot remember the last time I had gathered enough air to laugh, as I exhale it out before it even gets to my chest.

I’ve often wondered whether I was untouchable or, more accurately, unholdable. Did I slip through people’s fingers and leave residue behind? Was that why there were traces of me always slugging behind me as I walked toward the next pair of open arms?

Was I clingy? I’d ask softly, though my heart pleaded for a simple touch. I traced people with my eyes, to carry them places later on, to tell them which parts I missed throughout the day. Was I too quiet? I always looked toward what I was supposed to be paying attention to. I smiled, maybe even laughed at whatever was said. I tried to chime in, but was cut off. I’d zone out again.

Then I graduated. I’m walking across the stage, and there’s a moment when I realize that I’m walking across the stage, and my family is watching me. I stopped, looked at the camera, my dean, and then at the diploma, and realized, “I must be walking now.” So I shook his hand and I waved, smiling. I exhale once I’m out of sight, but there are more cameras. I smile again. I reach this stupid cardboard cutout and smile again. The only sound I hear is the clicking of my heels. Someone says my name. “Oh, hey, my love. Congrats!” The sound of clicking again rumbles and rumbles. I look up. Smile. Adjust. Smile. Look left. Smile. Adjust. Sit. Adjust. Smile. Adjust. Adjust. Adjust. I thought this was supposed to feel special, I thought, as my back burned and feet ached.

I had finished the longest week of my life, and what I thought would last awhile had decided to wilt early. If only it were a flower, then at least I could say I remembered it in its youth. The memories of the growth have all re-wilded together, and the only thing worth remembering is the things I wished I had said before its death. Maybe if I were softer, funnier, kinder, prettier, I wouldn’t be carrying a bouquet of dead roses; perhaps I would not be dead.

Danielle McKinney

It's as if each flower knew by my scent that they would die before me.

Am I a gardener or a lumberjack? For I simply know not of the difference between the two. I rip and cut and water and love. I nurture and harvest. What more does Mother want of me? She gives and I offer, and she gives and I take, but only when I cannot survive. I give, and she continues, even though she’s spread thin. Thin across sheets that smelled of sweat and yesterday; that was me, along with her. Sweat from nightmares I had of her leaving me. Last night, I had the same one, but I was awake. “Maybe that’s why I cried into my brown batter,” I wished. I don’t even remember her laugh.

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To, ….

I haven’t used my voice to speak in four days, and I’m not sure if it will work anymore. I should practice before I go to work tonight, but I’m scared you’d hear me say your name desperately.

With all that I have,

Trixie.