Brittle
never pick sides
It’s cold, and he’s teasing laughter from my lips, and I want to ask if I can close the window but I don’t want to leave the warmth of his arms around my waist, so I burrow my head in his chest and let his careful, calm words wash over me.
While he’s sleeping, I lean up on my elbow and press my fingertips to his skin and it’s things like this that make me comfortable. I can feel his breaths, slow and precise, lifting my hand as I press it over his chest and splay out my fingers as if I’m going to trace the shape with a pencil.
He smiles in his sleep, more often than not, and his eyelids flicker and sometimes his toes twitch, but I don’t mind. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s brittle.
I guess that’s what he is. Like his hair, I mean. He’s brittle. He’s always so cold and oblivious, and he says things without thinking them, and sometimes when he’s angry with me and I touch his shoulder as if I’m saying, “Please let me back in,” he shrugs me away. As if he’s saying, “Go away, go over there, go somewhere else. Just go away.” I don’t mind.
I don’t mind that he’s brittle. Brittle like his hair. It’s been through too many packets of dye – black and red and blue and bleached until it’s stringy and raw and coarse. Until it’s brittle. I don’t mind that, because I know he’s been through too many packets of dye too – the sleepless nights, the empty syringes, the night after night after night after night he spent staring at the bottom of a beer glass and waiting for his brain to let him kill himself.
He is brittle, but that’s okay, because he’s not really brittle like his hair. His hair is brittle forever, but sometimes he’ll wrap his arms tight around my waist and I won’t mind that it’s cold, and he’ll tease laughter from my lips, and he’s not brittle then.
I run my fingers through his hair, and his eyes flicker open and he presses his lips to mine and says, “Go to sleep.”
I sleep.
—
While he’s sleeping, I lean up on my elbow and press my fingertips to his skin and it’s things like this that make me comfortable. I can feel his breaths, slow and precise, lifting my hand as I press it over his chest and splay out my fingers as if I’m going to trace the shape with a pencil.
—
He smiles in his sleep, more often than not, and his eyelids flicker and sometimes his toes twitch, but I don’t mind. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s brittle.
—
I guess that’s what he is. Like his hair, I mean. He’s brittle. He’s always so cold and oblivious, and he says things without thinking them, and sometimes when he’s angry with me and I touch his shoulder as if I’m saying, “Please let me back in,” he shrugs me away. As if he’s saying, “Go away, go over there, go somewhere else. Just go away.” I don’t mind.
—
I don’t mind that he’s brittle. Brittle like his hair. It’s been through too many packets of dye – black and red and blue and bleached until it’s stringy and raw and coarse. Until it’s brittle. I don’t mind that, because I know he’s been through too many packets of dye too – the sleepless nights, the empty syringes, the night after night after night after night he spent staring at the bottom of a beer glass and waiting for his brain to let him kill himself.
—
He is brittle, but that’s okay, because he’s not really brittle like his hair. His hair is brittle forever, but sometimes he’ll wrap his arms tight around my waist and I won’t mind that it’s cold, and he’ll tease laughter from my lips, and he’s not brittle then.
—
I run my fingers through his hair, and his eyes flicker open and he presses his lips to mine and says, “Go to sleep.”
I sleep.
♠ ♠ ♠
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