Death and a Trip

Death and a Trip

Elena Burgueño

Apples sat on the counter for a month and when I pressed my finger into their sides, big pockets opened up and left gooey craters outlined by yellow bruises and sticky juice bubbled to the surface. I left them where I found them with my finger marks indicting me as their murderer. 

No one watered the funeral flowers while I was away. The big white ones drooped over the vase's sides and hung limply between the big leaves thrown in a pattern around them. When I lifted them from their resting place, stiff material crunched down on the ledge and left flower dust. The pink rose in my bedroom surrounded by lilacs had turned brown in its white places and red in its pink places and the water in which it died was also brown. 

My bed was untouched. 

I had cried in the movie theater. The music was tangible isolation, sharp stops mid-breath. Then minutes of silence. The return of the wind instruments and then more silence. I cried with my mouth open. I turned my head sideways to face the empty chair next to me and my mouth became a hollow cave that screamed so loudly that no one could hear it and the sticky white apple tears rolled into the creases between my nose and cheeks and clung to the edges of my lips where I easily sucked them in and they recycled themselves. 

He pretended not to notice.

Then I curled my hands to form a tunnel around my mouth and gestured like I was going to whisper something into his ear, but instead I kissed his cheek and then sat back to watch his face swell up with pride and then crash down. I couldn't discern the meaning for a moment because there was some hope left there. But I've seen that look before. When something is going to be said that doesn't want to be heard. 

I drank poison. Filled in bottles then in cups and swallowed them all down getting dizzy on it. Cooked poison into my chocolate and ate it so that it could scratch my stomach and swim through my bloodstream invisible. 

They are all very good at pretending not to notice. 

He smelled my hair once and touched my shoulder and kissed my cheek and kissed my forehead and held me. Once. He did all of those things. Once. 

At home I barely made a sound. I silently destroyed things instead. I left traces of my victories, my victims, all over the place for someone to find, but everyone is good at one thing. 

Pretending. 

There is No Reason To Ever Be Bored

There is No Reason To Ever Be Bored

The Fragile Nature Of White Porcelain And Human Psyche

The Fragile Nature Of White Porcelain And Human Psyche