purplesmile's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- invisible, i-v i. I seem to set myself up for awkward encounters. In my head, I’m convinced that it’s me manipulating the circumstances, protecting myself, protecting others from me. Maybe, if I’m not outspoken and don’t have opinions. Maybe, if I just show up sweet and smiling. Maybe, if I abandon that pretense of passion and become a doll, posable, invisibility won’t be so bad. I wondered last week if scars lack melatonin. As my skin took on darker hues in the sun’s bright light, those tracks of creamy white showed no signs of willingness to hide. I sometimes pretended to read my book, propped up on my knees, when really I was mentally tracing those imperfections, conjuring the feelings that put them there in the first place. Although I have those deep, wide marks on my thighs that are noticeable if I wear short shorts, I also have the thinnest, tiniest scars that live on my ankles. I like them. They are sweet and delicate and indistinguishable from one another. They remind me of handwriting with the finest of sharpened pencil tips, gossamer webs, a tangle of brambles and emotions. I got a mosquito bite on my right ankle this week, and my allergy to such nibbles caused my ankle to swell, taking on the appearance of bloated, pregnant skin. The slender lines stretch, leaving wider, pale roads in their place, visible on the blotchy red-tan. ii. The smooth orange polish on my toenails is the color of an orange sherbet push up pop melting in the sun. Sitting on the dock waiting to fill the boat with gas, my tongue was swirling around the cardboard container. I watched her, chocolate coating on her lips, a streak on her cheek, and I could only think about licking it off, kissing her. My hair is still brittle from the sun. it crinkles a little in my hands, against the pillow at night. It’s good to sleep back with her. I never thought I’d really miss it, but the first time I laid my head back on her chest, I knew I was home. iii. I keep watching my boss traipse by my doorway, stealing glances, hoping to scold me for something. If there’s nothing to blame on me, blame me for, there’s no point in my existing. Invisibility. A gift, perhaps, other times impossibly heavy. I’m not sure how I got here. How I got to be quiet, unobtrusive. I do my job. I even used to love my job. Now, though, it’s more something I do because I have to. I still love working with the students, but I feel empty, alone as an employee. I belong less than ever. I’m not even sure the new guy on the staff knows my name, even though this office is only a staff of fifteen or so. I wonder about this metamorphosis. I wonder when it started, and where it will end. I keep picturing this nesting bug I made for English class in high school, a rather odd interpretation of Kafka’s musing. I’m not sure where that idea came from, but that’s how I feel right now, shedding layers of myself, exposing the new, the raw, uncertain what’s underneath, but trying to find it anyway. iv. I’m back to tracing lines, but with the pads of my fingers rather than my eyes. I think about shutting the door, finding a glinting piece of something piercing, grasping at the ends of what I know that feeling brings. I resist anymore. It’s an empty action. Emptier than I already am. I keep waiting to get filled. The M&Ms I’m eating are so bright I can barely stand it, the way the light makes them seem to glow against the mahogany laminate of my desktop. Maybe I need to get my eyes checked, or maybe I just spent too much time not wearing sunglasses last week. I keep trying to think of who I can count on anymore, since I know I can’t count on me. She’s the only one, I think. I miss my friends, but I can’t help but assume they really are better off without me, and that there is a reason for all things, etc. I can’t find my scars with my eyes closed. 12:10 p.m. - July 31, 2007 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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