Collarbones

1 - Mind

 My mind is like the ocean in the sense that few have dared to venture the blackness that stretches on for unknown leagues. Much like the salty waves during hurricane season, my mind has a tendency to drown ships and take lives. When the waves come in, the destroyed pieces can be seen sticking out of the foam, splintered pieces of wood and ripped sails still billowing in the heavy winds. As the waves return, they leave the destruction upon the sand, visible to all but the pain of the destruction never seems to hit hard enough.

I feel it, though. Everyday I feel the splinters of my past as I dive into the dark depths of my mind to unravel the cause of the pain that erupts through me like an explosion. Sometimes I feel as if I’m drowning in the myriad of thoughts that consume me when night kisses the horizon and all that’s left is me and the pain.

I am the sole survivor of the depths of my mind. Only I can say that I’ve scraped the bottom with my toes after having pencil-dived into the frigid waters that contain the words of a depressed mind. I have survived the burning in my lungs as I almost drown in the cold waters, fighting the water that fills up my lungs and threatens to pull me back down to the bottom until I am nothing but a corpse killed by her own mind.

I try to push my own psychoanalysis of my mind as I flip the pages of the magazine that sags between my fingertips. Sitting in the midst of my bed surrounded by this month’s delivery of magazines, I eagerly thumb through the glossy pages, hoping to see something that will spark my interest. As I browse, my phone sits cradled between my shoulder and ear, hidden by pieces of hair that falls from my messy bun. I listen to the girl on the other end talk about her problems with her newest boy, the friend of an ex-boyfriend who had had secret feelings for her the entire time she was involved.

She chatters in my ear, occasionally letting out a squeal or a disgruntled groan as she recalls something he did earlier in the day that she just doesn’t quite understand the meaning of. While her words become nonsense to me, I pause on the glossy page of a group of built men who pose semi-nude together. At first, I think I’ve picked up a magazine that was supposed to have been delivered to someone with more of an appreciation for those men but instead, I find myself looking at an advertisement for perfume.

In the center of the page is a woman who is stick-thin and about the size of my pinky. As I move my extended finger away from the page, I purse my lips and peer closer at the woman. I wonder what it is about her that would cause all of these men to want to situate themselves in front of her like that. I immediately understand that the purpose of the ad is to say that if a woman were to spritz this, she’d have all the men ripping off their clothes to join her.

The thing that bothers me about this picture is not the obscure positioning of some of the mens’ heads around her breasts and nether-region, but the fact that this woman is photoshopped into perfection. With what is supposed to be windblown hair falling against the white background in soft brunette waves and her skin an odd shade of milky white, she would not have to resort to buying a perfume to attract the attention of men. Even so, with her naked body taking up the center of the stage, all I can see is her flat tummy, belly button, and then her thighs, not even the width of my pointer finger extending behind the men crouching before her.

I don’t even know her, but I imagine her to be self-confident and well aware of the fact that her beauty catches the attention of both men and women alike.

“Ainsley, are you still there?” Alina Hansen whines in my ear.

With a sigh, I decide to shut the magazine and toss it away from me. “Yeah, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that Ace tried to slip his hand into my pants again.” She tells me. “I mean, I want to go further with him, but do I really want to tell people that the first boy I slept with is named Johann? Like, no.”