Just Paint Your Face

"I need... a cigarette... I need it. Need, need, speed, deed." I babbled to myself, hardly realizing words were dropping out of my mouth. I giggled madly, watching the plants grow so quickly the leaves were reaching towards my clean tile floor.

"Hey... hey... you guys, you guys know what? How do you guys like my hair?" In my madness over the course of my treatment, I'd been ripping it apart. I was also very dirty, and hungry, for I'd neglected to eat and shower since I'd come home two nights ago.

It was the third night, and it was nearing time for the final dosage that would seal my fate.

As far as I can recall, everything from the moment I'd crawled lazily away from my windowsill to the coffee table--which was now covered in used syringes, torn apart papers, and other unfortunate products of my rage over the news that morning--where the last needle lay innocently inside the briefcase, to the moment I'd fallen asleep (or passed out, I don't know which) everything went by in a flurry of black rage.

I remember at one point muttering about wanting to paint.

All the while my plants whispered solemnly, something like a eulogy--summing up and replaying parts of my past both near and far.

(happy birthday to you happy birthday to you

uncle's coming uncle's coming time to go play down where the

trailers are pick flowers

?? never got to bloom

you promised you'd always love
but you didn't want it anyways did you ??
the kids never do

we're going to get along i can feel it you're different

your mother my father was a drinker

you'll be better)

I painted one picture. Two. Three. Then I realized.

They were all of him. I screamed, grasping more handfuls of hair. I rushed to the kitchen, pulling out a knife, stabbing blindly through each one, sending wet paint splattering across my face and shreds of paper flying about me. It was like having an out of body experience, not feeling like I was there, experiencing it. As my anger rose, my plants across the room reached, down the wall and across the dining room, faster and faster, covering distance. I began to calm when I felt the stems wrapping themselves gently around my arms, my legs, my torso, my head. Coaxing me to sit down. Convincing me I needed rest. The leaves that budded tickled my skin. I felt tears run down my cheeks in small rivers as I sang a slow song numbly in my strange state.

"Two pale figures ache in silence,

timeless in the quiet ground,

side by side in age and sadness.

I watched and acted wordlessly,

as piece by piece

you formed your story.

Moving through an unknown past,

dancing at the funeral party.

Memories of children's' dreams lie lifeless,

fading, lifeless,

hand in hand with fear and shadows,

crying at the funeral party.

I heard a song and turned away,as piece by piece you performed your story,

noiselessly across the floor,

dancing at the funeral party..."

I shook, sobbed. I was going to die. I knew it. I felt it.

I stopped then, for the strong, thick stems and large leaves had totally enveloped me.

While I slept, most of May died.

When I awoke, Ivy was born.