drink a dozen roses
The window seat is spread with soft lace cushions and a blanket, and on some nights, I feel comfy, and on others, I couldn't feel more uncomfortable. Sometimes the twilight shuts me out, and I have to live alone by the glass: my fingers frozen and dribbling condensation down my arm. If a heart really can be heavy, then mine must be loaded with weights. It drags, like a corpse behind me, and I'm forced to pull it in a sack along, because leaving it behind would be me leaving myself behind. Because that's all we really are: a pile of emotions and bones. Feelings are what make us, create us, and when we leave them behind, we truly give up on what matters most.
Sometimes pain is too stressful. Sometimes I switch it off, and all I feel is empty. Bored. I might cover myself in make-up, but I look like a phantom. Hollow, hollow, hollow: broken doll who sips cappuccinos and sits in fields of poppies.
I keep repeating it all. Revenge. Ire. Blood. Remembrance. Isabela. All the things I didn't do, say, feel: how I didn't save her. How she's dead, and I'm left running the loop with thorns in my side that I used to think were roses. I'm spinning, swirling, oscillating so that the stars are falling and the poppies are bleeding and all I'm ever seeing is her face. Isabela's face.
Am I dying?
I came home from the restaurant to find the knife and fork I'd been holding in my bag, stuffed inside along with sweet perfume like sugar and a heavy heart. I came home to see the stars but I can't see them! I can't see them! The glass is fuzzy and frozen, masked in condensation that's dribbling down my arms. I came home to live the circle, like I always do. And the coffee was bitter. I had to sweeten it, but how can is still taste sour? I drowned it in syrup and hope and love but it still tasted bittersweet. I couldn't touch the grapefruit even though Mum said I wasn't eating well. Wasn't that what happened this morning?
I can't breathe. Not here, not in a remembrance field. Not with people, who soak me and scrub me in all this rage I can't forget, forgive.
And the boredom. Its back. Its gnawing on me, like a vulture: picking at me, until there's nothing left. It flies down from a black sky to feed and how can I run? How can I hide? It always chases, it always catches.
Isabela. Why did she have to run and hide and why did death have to chase and catch? Why am I so fuzzy and frozen and bloody?
I pull my phone out from my pocket, and find Levi's contact. I call him, and the boring beep beep, beep beep, beep beep, takes over like a wave.
"Levi? Levi, its Ivory."
A shuffling, scuffling sound, then a crystal voice. "Are you okay?"
"No. I'm just, just scaring myself."
"Um, okay? Like, is someone at home, or-"
"I need to go out."
"Well, are you sure-?"
"Its quite dark, Ivory- wait for me, okay? I'll pick you up-"
"I need to see the stars."
"You will, just wait for me."
"I don't think I can," I whisper, staring dizzily out of the window.
I pull out of my coat, and take one last look at the night. Stars are falling, and poppies are bleeding.