Deep blue eyes, stringy blonde hair
Sweat stained shirt, motorcycle oil.
The sound of a beer bottle opening.
Slurred words, angry fists.
Breath saturated in alcohol.
I gazed at you across the street,
The occasional passing car obstructing my view.
Your folding chair has molded to your body.
I sat on the sidewalk watching as the smoke danced away from your lips.
Even if you had taken the time to look across the street back to me,
I doubt you would have ever seen me.
Truly seen me.
You sit surrounded with your like-minded friends,
Laughing at jokes probably too inappropriate for my ears.
This is my first memory.
You've crossed the street over to me.
Your friends are gone, the smoke has been put out.
It's your fifth bottle today.
I'm playing on the concrete with my older sister's plastic toys.
You pull out money from your grease stained cargo shorts and wave it in my face.
"Get yourself something nice."
With those words you wave my sister and I off as we head to the market.
I bought a bike for my dolls with the money you gave me.
This was my something nice.
This was also my second memory.
It's dark out.
We're in the city and you're both smiling.
I think you're having a good time with each other but I couldn't tell.
We're heading home but you've only got motorcycles and I'm only eight.
You don't care.
I'm on the back of your bike as you're speeding down the highway.
I don't have a helmet on, but if I did, then how would I see all the pretty lights from the skyline?
The wind is crashing against me and I'm struggling to hold on to you.
You don't notice.
I see her smiling on the other bike.
I try to smile too.
This is my third memory.
It was exceptionally hot that day.
You're at work and I've come too.
It's a small, dusty old print shop with unoriginal designs.
Your red hands place a small pink hat with my name on it on my head.
You feel complete.
This was my fourth memory.
Where is my fifth memory?
I can't remember.
You're slowly fading in my mind.
What was the color of your folding chair?
What color were your eyes again?
Who are you?
YOU ARE READING
Numbing Waves
PuisiA compilation of short stories and poems about mental disorders, love, sexuality, and whatever my happens in my life worth writing about. These are the deepest regions of my conscious written down.
