Once when I was young and didn’t know better, I auctioned off my heart like 25 cent lemonade.
It didn’t work out. No surprise. But for a summer, I let the hurt sit.
I mixed a salt-water solution and spilled it over the top every now and again, but it stung so I never bothered to rub it in and really clean it off until it was too late; the stain had already set. Here lies Naivete.
Rest in Peace.
My feelings grew harder that summer, so when fall came, I figured I was ready. I grabbed some bleach and scrubbed til the stain was gone, but consequently so was most of the vinyl. Without that thin barrier to protect it, my heart grew porous, ready to reflect the bruise of any snide remark, any casual misunderstanding. I couldn’t help but soak up all the bad and all the good til my heart was so heavy and squishy, I was wringing it out every other day. A sad, ugly, sopping thing- I elected to bleach it again. I was sure no one could love it otherwise.
But it grew ashen then, dry like pumice. So brittle, it started to hurt just to look someone else in the eye, to acknowledge anyone, for fear it would turn into a conversation I couldn’t enjoy, or worse, sustain. So I plugged my ears with headphones and kept my eyes to the ground. I walked quickly. I didn’t want to be seen–every glance a reflection of myself registered in a hostile other, or worse, a loving and wanting other, pathetic in their needs.
And I sat home. I shut the door. I tried to always be asleep. I mostly just laid awake. I dreamt of being in a coma. Not dead, but not quite around. I had my bleach to keep me busy otherwise.
Eventually notes were written and confiscated, teachers were “concerned,” mothers were alarmed, “counsel” was given, scoffs were very barely repressed.
But, you know, in a way it worked. Because I changed; became campy. I put away the bleach and wrapped myself up in a warm cloak of cheer like a moth mimicking a monarch.
And it was okay. It really was. I was sick of being me anyway.