We live in the same town, but we drive different routes to get to my house. I take the side street, the one lined with squatting wooden houses, pale yellow and blue, that are set back from the road just enough to say, “Don’t bother me, every day is Sunday and I like newspapers, not making news”. You drive through town because you prefer the distraction of traffic lights and left turns.
These are the things you already know: You know that the best place to park is by the grocery store, because it’s in the center of everything and we don’t mind walking. You know that it’s okay to go into the Emporium and sit there without buying any coffee, and you know that even though there is a sign on the bathroom door that says, “Customers only please,” everyone uses it all the time, because we have all been customers at some point. You also know that going places alone at night makes my skin itch because I can already feel the fingernails of men digging scars into my arms, my stomach, my soul.
These are the things you should know but that I don’t want to tell you: When you kissed me, I was surprised how soon it ended. When you hug me, I feel like the sky sleeping in the curve of the moon, like your arms are squeezing life back into my icy veins.
These are the things I want you to do: Kiss my wrists. Make my hands warm. Never stop telling me about the tears on your pillow or the burns on your fingers. Walk with me in the rain and show me how to avoid puddles. And as you stand in the elementary school parking lot, leaning against your car and letting the night sky swallow you up, let the blood in your legs stop coursing so fast, stop blinking your eyes so much, and just breathe.
These are the things I don’t want you to do (this is the part you can laugh at, and then resolve to be serious about later): Stop texting me to tell me that you’re bored. Remember that I am not a replacement for her or any other girl. Don’t ever buy me another fucking sandwich and then kick me out because you’re horny and you want to make out with that other girl. She has the same name as I do. Sorry about the profanity, but you taught me what half of it means.
Please listen to me, just once: Next time you go into the woods, go down the steps and then turn right. Keep turning right. Fewer people turn right in the woods. Keep walking until you get to the pine forest. Notice the loud green leaves everywhere, the thin stems of weeds, the way the path seems to have edges. Two years ago, there was no path here. Now close your eyes. Imagine all the little green weeds gone. Pine needles cover the ground like eyelids. This place is always sleeping, always dreaming. Sit on that log over there. Notice how it bounces. It used to be an upright tree. Think of me and how I fell last year. Look at the tree trunk in front of you, at the names carved onto it, and wonder where they are now, if those couples are still encapsulated by one, beating heart. Think of me. Wonder if our names will ever be carved on trees, together or separate. Wonder if we will have the courage to become permanent someday. Wonder if to us, permanence will always mean scars.
And then please, keep breathing.
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