i may have forgotten how to write

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KaitForest's avatar
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i want to pack up my things in the little red suitcase i saw at st. vincent de paul's a year ago. maybe in a new suitcase. maybe in my grandmother's. i'd take my laptop- no. i'd take a few notebooks. real cheap ones, not the leather kind everyone is so keen on putting in their hands. i'd buy the spiral kind, 90 cents at the store (the words are all i care about); a dozen black pens. i'd take five dresses from my closet, a few sweaters, all of my skirts. i'd take the t-shirts i have been given over the years, my favorite pair of shorts. i'd collect the stashed letters from lovers and myself and all those post it notes. i'd take my pentax slr and a few rolls of film. maybe some money. a passport. a sun hat, because it is going to be summer where i want to go. a pair of shoes, the only ones; the brown ones i wear all the time, because i only need a pair to get me where i am going. i'd bring a map. an atlas. a little black purse. i'd take the car my father promised me a year ago, as if it were really mine. i'd put everything in the trunk and i'd leave. i wouldn't leave a note, just a vacant room filled with everything i had saved, was working on; all that i had stashed in that damn room with the small sliver window over the years- the guilt, the lovers, the pain, the past, the memories, the loneliness, the ghosts, the demons; the scared, confused child i once was. i would get onto the highway, and i would pass the signs until the coast, until the north. i'd cross borders like lines on the sidewalk, with ease. i'd walk the miles til you, til someone different. i wouldn't be so scared. i would see the stars, all they are worth; the arms of the milky way, spiraling round the sky as if the earth were catapulting. i'd sit at fires on beaches and in the woods. i'd howl with wolves and i'd live in cabins and i'd fall in love and out of love and i'd sit in bathtubs in houses of people i wouldn’t really know, but would, and i'd prop a naked, slender leg on the white porcelain side of the tub, and pull out those spiral notebooks and write it all down with my leg as a table.

and i'd live silently under the roof of everyone's mouth, incorrectly pronounced, unsure. i'd slip into dreams just a face and a memory and a curiosity. i'd fall away like cliffs into the sea or wind in a valley and no one would really know of me; i'd never stay long enough to be ensnared.

and one day i would come back here to this place, this room. i'd find the bed, maybe, still unmade, the closet naked, the drawers undone. i'd lay down and feel the sun crawl down my body, peeking through that window, and i'd fall asleep with you here. only you would ever know what i was, would have been, could be. and you'd be the net i'd finally collapse into and i'd tell you it all, let you read my words, let you hold me between your arms. we would mold until we were just bones in the ground; concave bed in a smoldered house, people moving in over what we were. time would cradle us like we would cradle each other and an eternity we would be there, bed frames for new homes and humans and lives. we'd coil like roots of a tree, deep in the ground; together, forever, even if once we were not.

© 2013 - 2024 KaitForest
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scathing-sanity's avatar
I'd hardly call this "forgetting how to write". It's brilliant, as is everything you do.