Stained glass is surrounding me, bluing up the curtains and purpling the
linoleum. I have my own rose-colored wrap-around sunglasses, I made pink
along one whole corner and wall. Bilious they said and then
conjunctivitis, pinkeye the kitchen has pinkeye. I like it. Yellow makes
me sick so this is my sunlight. Rosy like me.
Glass is like water but hard, especially the kind with waves and ripples
in it. It's like the water pouring over the edges of the sink right now in
great sheets. The water was pink too but I washed it out. It was pink like
the window light but not like the window light because it came from
blood. Which the window color didn't. Unless the sun bleeds. Do you think
the sun bleeds? Sunburns are pink and they can bleed.
I don't know what happened but there is only one here now. Is there? He
went to the hospital but I do not know. I do not feel alone.
I never feel alone not with Frank and Marc. But inside I do sometimes. Is
that why he cut himself? Did he feel alone? Was it Art? Was it an
accident? Where did they go?
My feet are wet.
Why why why why why why can't I tell myself from ten years away
what happens next? Why can I write to me then now and not me now then? Did
that make sense? Where is my head? Why am I writing all this down instead
of cleaning up? I tried to mop I remember but more water just came and
then I stopped with my pen and the kitchen chair. The back of a grocery
list. Milk cheese eggs bread blood. Flour, rice milk, olive oil,
blood. Blood oranges, pomegranates, blood pudding, dark
chocolate. Saffron. Blood.