I was exposed to smaller worlds
I was exposed to smaller worlds belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical and ChildhoodThe cement is warm and I recall counting out change on the counters of gas stations. Always keeping a quarter to call—realizing that lost translates so clearly in motionless space.
My dreams have been filled with mobsters and secret missions, bruises and escapes. There have been so many guns—burns on my hand and words ringing through my brain as old starlets set down my drink with a smile.
And I don’t see a heaven in the black. A small boy points at the sky and I look, believing in prophecy. Expressionless, I continue to walk down the sidewalk as wars rage in the back room and broken film is collected in the light.
I didn’t believe that they could see me. A boy smiles and I fake composure so the shaking won’t come through the skin.
I was exposed to smaller worlds. You can remember, I said. I know you do. It was an intensely jarring sensation, like falling into glass, icy wind and saying goodbye to someone who taught you about kites.
Thrown into the curtains and pressed against the close walls, feeling a bit too compressed, as if there were acres of land you were forced to fold into your skin. My friend smiled—her knees brushed the edges of mine, so I took her face and placed it someplace safe. There was always this glaring lack of something, so I learned to keep things, in case they fit into an empty space.
Ambitions of a teacup. I could not decide how the air fit, how I could get enough to breathe and still have enough left to run through my fingers as we drove down the street. The friend sunk and I stretched out my legs, watching my knees. They stuck up in a funny way. When I was fatter, they could disappear, but now they were without a closet and sat there looking quite naked. They did not know to grab a coat. Their space just fell away.
My eyes were shaking in my head—the sounds were so loud. Such a room was too incomplete, but nothing I kept would fit into it. I would yell through the walls, and I could hear it all scrape around, unable. It was a small empty space with my entire world sitting outdoors, unable.
Something on the outside was coughing. It was a vague sound. I could feel its movement and it was uncomfortable—like rapid crawling or the expression of betrayal on a child’s face as you lose them for good this time.
I rubbed my nose and sniffed. My red shirt had become all dusty—I could not find a way to adequately brush it off and then I realized that the tissue would not tear.
I will forget you. You will join other memories of boats and family, lovers and the dead, victims and monsters, and, perhaps, if you should later fall from the wall you can tell me what stories you shared.
I lick my lips; the air tastes like metal. Cars shine in the sun.
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