Stealing Pulse

Chapter 11

I am a salamander

And you, you were the heaviest weight in my feet when I sunk to the sediment below the surface, the salted winds birthing vacancies in my stomach; a paler form of death, light my hands on fire; a sweeter breath of black, pull me further under.

I have always been a salamander—losing myself only to grow once more. I am the curtain in our window, densely drawn and writhing like water snakes, simply sheer films of fabric dancing under the pretense of being something special. I hope someday you love me; for now, I am a seashell ring wrung round my finger, imprinted with starfish and clenching over the veins at the knuckle. Here, I wait.

You, you are infinite, you are mountains. I still spit rocks from the dream I had a week ago where I kissed you and you held me and it wasn't romantic, but it was nice. I am still uncomfortable with my waist and jaw and the music I can feel you sing. You are stones and trees, breath in the weighted skyline. I like the way I see myself painted against you; a high-strung silhouette strung-high in the wind. I am a kite. You are infinite in your undoing.

I am the reason for your falling apart.

I have always wondered if you have liked my writing so much because it is for you; I've always wondered why my words liked you so much. The ambiguity never fades for longer than a moment, and I am musing once more if I have any hopes to become your mirror and have you see yourself the way I see you.

I have not talked to you in awhile because every time I do I become a lesser person. You fade me like salt paper, the sort that stains your fingers with the scent of vinegar. I am the ink from the note I wrote you ("be safe, I love you. Please don't forget that unless it's something you'd rather not remember."), sunken like a shanty from the lips of drowned sailors in a mud puddle. You make me forget myself until there is no one to forget. Sometimes I like that. Sometimes I cry new oceans. You absolutely suck me dry until I am nothing more than a cactus, holding onto a mouthful of water for some thirsty bird. I am simply bones, hollow and bleached when you find me.

I was dead before you could touch me.