This time, I say, I will let you go. Like the very last
pages in my favorite childhood book, the one
That’s okay. I’ve got the whole world inside my body. My
belly is the mountains that line the coast in California. My legs are the
sections of I-35 freeway that try to run away to Austin or Dallas, but always
stop in Waco to breathe. My hands are still wrapped around that mugger’s skinny
elbow on the subway in Barcelona. I was so proud of myself that day. My lungs
are the windowsill on the bar below my apartment where I suck down free
cigarettes with a bouncer named Lenny. My lips are wrapped around endless ice
cream cones in freezing London, sometimes kissing strangers in twin-sized beds.
The things I like best about myself are that I have my
grandmother’s smile and I always survive.
I wish I could tell you that the girl ripping holes like
mouse bites in the front of your t-shirt isn’t me. That the girl running hard
on the burning asphalt under the summer moon isn’t me either. That the girl who
makes sounds like a goose with broken vocal cords isn’t crying hard enough to
illicit such a noise. That those scratch marks on your wrist when I wouldn’t
let you go weren’t made accidentally by my manicure.
At least Bruce Banner had the sense to hide away where no
one could find him. At least Bukowski kept himself locked in a post office for
years. At least Carrie Fischer subjected her memories to ECT.
What do I have?
I have a shiny, fleeting thing, like Daisy Buchanan right
before she hits Myrtle with her car. Like Holly Golightly after she applies a fresh
coat of lipstick and before she throws Cat out of the taxi. Like Clementine
Kruczynski with her Blue Ruin hair before she drinks all that whiskey.
I need to leave you because you don’t know how to stay.
At least, not with a girl like me, anyway.
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