Raw Emotions

Mango

There is this body wash.
It sits on the shelf, but never collects dust, my shaking fingertips moving it just before it can look old, Unfamiliar.
I have been waiting for the day that I run out of every other washing product to use it.
Working every bottle down until it cracks in my clenched fists, bloodied fists,
At the realisation that I have to face it.
Because I can't buy another one unless I've run out, and I know I haven't run out because...
There it sits,
It's orange contents catching the sunlight, tightening my threat, I recite the lies I tell to everyone and direct them at myself.
I'm over it.
I understand his reasons.
It wasn't my fault.
I expected him to leave.
I pick up the bottle and escort it to the shower, brightly coloured fingernails digging into the plastic, hoping that it will give way.
Then guilt sets in, the thought of wasting something, the thought of wasting a memory, I should cherish this but I don't want to cherish it.
It should be fun, reopening an old favourite smell.
This is when I realise fun isn't that fun wen you don't wanna have fun.
The water pours over me, cleaning me of the bad things, the moment of purity I always feel, I feel clean for once. My skin no longer itches with the things I've said, but then I open that cap.
The liquid sunshine collects in a small puddle on my hand.
I close my eyes and rub my hands together,
I let the smell wash over my senses.
It comes with regret.
It's a year ago and I'm holding his hand, the smell of mango body wash surrounds me and me smiles and my heart explodes and I run and lead him with me, the grass and trees turning into a pallet of paints around me and I hear him laugh as my hair flies behind me- golden brown locks whipping in the wind of the sea-
It's five in the morning and I'm suffering concussion, but I stay up with him. Because the memories are lashing his back like a whip, cracking like thunder around him, leaving him terrified in its wake- I stay with him.- My body over his, my arms around him, he has his head tucked into my chest and he's crying. He's crying. His tears collecting into the fabric of my jeans like holy water, I cleanse myself in his sorrow, telling him that he is safe that he is okay that I won't leave. He holds me. His arms wrap around my form like a shield, I tuck my nose into his neck. I smell mango body wash and cologne and vanilla.
Then it's summer- and I'm smelling different- like the sea and the wind and I'm closing my eyes to the feeling of my hair being cut. The golden brown falls to the floor in clumps, my hands wrapped around the plait that he once held, the hair that he once stroked, ran his fingers through, I can feel his skin along my scalp and my insides crawl. Fifteen minutes later and the small of ammonia surrounds me because I can't bare to look at the golden brown that once encompassed us, him, me, our love subjected to the chemicals of hair dye, I want it to leave me, I want him to leave me but he won't. Even though I haven't heard from him in a month. I change my body wash, the smell of waterlilies and jasmine floats along with me, the smell of apples clinging to my skin. I smile and it looks like recovery, sometimes it even feels like it.
It's autumn and I'm walking through the corridor and I round the corner and his best friend looks straight at me, college graduates, he shouldn't be here. I get a heart stopping moment when I see his best friend and it's all I can do to hug him because I don't want to cry. I tell him to tell him that I'm doing okay.
This is the biggest lie I can possibly tell but I walk away anyway. Rounding corners, I feel my throat tighten and I take a deep breath only to be confronted with....
mango body wash.
Cologne.
Vanilla cupcakes.
He smells like home and hell and heaven and I feel my heart implode. I feel my breath rattle inside my chest and I walk faster with the view of his face scorched into my brain and I walk into the art room and they fall silent.
Only three in the room and they fall silent.
The quiet wraps around me and I stutter and frown and look at my hands and stutter more and she walks up to me. Her words seeming to give validation to my emotions.
'You saw him didn't you.'
The words can't make it out my mouth, my eyes well and she's hugging me and I'm tucking my nose into her neck and breathing in her familiar smell.
She holds me but all I can think about is how there are places on his face where I haven't kissed, as though his cheekbones are canvases for my lips and my tears felt like wax as they roll down my cheeks and it's today-
Months later.
And the smell of mango body wash... vanilla cupcakes.... it leaves me with the realisation that I am not over anything.
But it's fine...
no one knows how beautiful he was-we were.
He's just the dick I get angry about.
Right?
... right?