Bruises & Bedtimes: A hybrid.
Ultimately, selflessness has been my Achilles heel.
What is left now is routine. I’m drowning myself in my quotidian self-examinations, smothering my lungs with perfume and painting my lips like butterflies.
Within a week, I will be back in the blissful mundane. All I shall worry about are top buttons, bedtimes and deadlines. I shall have tea in high places, belong to an accent and play the crocodile with people who exist solely outside of my realm of comprehension.
Now, it is starting to rain. As it whistles through our amiable cage, the wind questions the possibilities of the past. Thirteen years ago, I slept in a cupboard and escaped a hurricane that went on to kill 57 people.
Their names are grotesque. Mine was called Floyd.
A song by a band of a similar name played through the rafters as I got engaged at the age of fifteen.
My new garnet, blood red birth-dated, is worn on the ring finger of my left hand to ward off ownership and romanticism as they only lead to detriment.
But last night, something beautiful happened. I wore it to bed and woke up, skin ringed with black and blue. One would think jewels gentle on the hand.
Perhaps the bruising is just residual.
