14.

Bare feet against carpet, this bed in front of me is lifeless
Empty of bodies, the sauna steam that you still smell in your sheets
And mine is just plain, just plain.
Coldish bright and silent.
Yours had noise
Yours had all those softsweet secrets we wrote on the mattress,
Stitched into the fabric with mingled wisps of blood and thread
Now I stand all washed clean of you and bland.

Electric wires that we braided up my neck still send tiny shocks
Every few seconds, every time I read your words
Fighting hard to shake the mist of three days past from my face
And oh, I’m failing, failing
(And I’m smiling, smiling)
Watching shadows of you dance across my skin as I order my coffee,
As I brush my teeth and pass the TV
Who cares? you said and I must say I quite agree.

We turned our fear and pain into blurs outside the window
Of the cozy bullet train we boarded
Night-black steel and streamlined, our name across the front
And we wrapped up in constellation blankets and we drank cocoa
Your skin inside the roof of my mouth
My mind was all mountain slopes down your back in the bathtub
The ring of autumn orange I saw in your eyes
All shoulder blades and whispered gasps and peach fuzz.

What’s left, my dirty towels
A bed stands passive at my feet with you not hidden in it.
In the meantime, I can mold a pillow into arms like yours
And write some verses in my head that sound a little bit like
You painting my name on my lips with your fingers.
I can hear your footsteps coming.
Flower petals sleeping until spring,
I’ll wait here, I’ll wait here.

13.

I am oil and ink
Seeping through pores slickcrawling down my little neck skin
I am leaving grease marks on my clothes and in your hands
Vision blurred and blotted out
Teeth are cracked enclosed inside this lockjaw, I can hear them
Straw hairs fall by one by one by one
Landing on my shoulders and my nose and I just sit
And take a lazy inventory

Stained and dripping black like charcoal soot, breathe in
Coughing up octopus dye and clouds of shattered glass
Turn my head to smear what’s left against the pavement
I am a church forsaken doors still swinging
Vibrant windows now dissolving into pale and still
Hymnal books wiped clean each silent page
Weightless drifting in a brine that pushes at my limbs
In slowest motion, closing eyelids to oncoming ice

I am I am I am
Fine

I am harboring a twisted gumstuck heart
Pumping tar and resin into swollen veins
Gluing up intestines sticky stomach acid turned to wax
Everything is losing steam
Everything is falling out
Lungs grasp feeble almost-breaths constrict
Like coiling pythons numbed and blueish mouth neck ribcage waist
My lips are leaking sea salt water

But skin holds oceans without breaking
I am a circus tent with monsters bloating fabric thin
Stitch it up into a dress that’s faded frayed
Around my waist and draining of its color
Bleeding some old shade of blue all down the front
Come and drink the salt I breathe
The ashy smell inside my mouth
I am eggshell white and vapor vanishing

I am I am I am
Fine

I am
Fine

I am
Fine

I am
Fin e

I a m
F in e

I ami
a m
F fi
n

e

.

Eve After The Apple

Daddy I’m sorry I am, I tore my dress on thorn strewn branches, all these flower petals falling on my shoulders
I brush the cinders off my crooked teeth but no I wouldn’t tell you why, no I would not, oh and you’d love to hear me talk about my sweaty crumpled panties wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you
That look you give me
That look, look, look
Look, I’m a teenaged slut and you’re taking out the trash

No no, it really isn’t fair it isn’t ever fair is it, I wouldn’t say it you wouldn’t hear it, and I guess I went and did something stupid didn’t I, didn’t I
yes Daddy I did blood stain my pretty white laced skirt
I’m sorry, I knew you wanted me to wear it for Easter but
it looks like I’m too gone for God now here and He saw the juice run down my chin and I just smiled didn’t I, didn’t I (only I wish I could say Mama 'cause a She god sure as Hell wouldn’t blame me for a little apple slice)

Either way I look too gone for God but not for golden idol streetlights and cigarette butts into ashtrays are my alters, yes
Cloudy little wisp of smoke me
(or maybe more like fat snake slithering through desk chairs and knocking over the Good China oh dear, did I do that?)
My poor knees, I think it's growing pains you said or it might be the weight of that secret I kept up between or maybe I spread them too far...
Oh yes and I’m sorry Daddy, Daddy, I did stain that white little dress, won’t you buy me a new one?

I should have bitten my tongue until it bled or sewn my lips with purple thread, and I should have I should have done a great many things but I didn’t
and I bet you look good with those hips in a circle Adam, oh, I bet
I bet you’ve looked looked good take a good long look because baby needs her spotlights, heaven knows
Okay I tripped over my own toes, I did, I skipped the cops and maybe I grabbed his leg but
The stars seem explosive when you’re drinking trees and toxins together from one jug don’t they, don’t they
And I just let my hair grow past the floor, let it grow right past the floorboards and in with braided flowers leaky pipe roots twisted and someone’s broken bottle glass, I did
Oh but Daddy I can’t twist it up for church now can I, can I

Bless me Father for I have skinned my knees on carpet writing love songs to the wrong end, I shouldn’t have shouldn’t have, and I got blood on my clean little skirt and I shouldn’t have, I know you bought me that nice white sheet and I promise I still wear my bobby socks with ruffles on the lip
Yes yes, they still match my saddle oxford shoes only I’ll have to rub that little red droplet off...
But Daddy oh I did, I brushed my skin caught little red droplets rolling down my leg drip apple juice right on my ankle and I tasted them didn’t I, didn’t I touch them to my tongue
Red apple rich sweet honey and I just skin smirk stroked and smiled didn’t I
Didn’t I kiss the bosom borne fruit, didn’t I
Didn’t I bite a dozen more
Didn’t I
Didn’t I

11.

I am writing so, so much and so many stories about you here
in the elevator,
down the staircase,
with the doors locked,
against that bookshelf,
I feel your sweat holding me down and I can’t make my legs sit still. You were something I never expected, & again & again & again, how did we even get here?
And oh, I would like to go again & again & again
Your breath, I ache

My cigarette mouth tastes black & ashy a faint trace of
your skin against my lips
I meant what I said last night, I really do shiver &
Every scene now is filtered hazy & remembering kicking off the bed sheets &
covering our mouths with our necks
You have no idea how you look to me.

Come over here, baby, and remind me why
I am still writing your name down on paper
I’ll make you go numb if you make me forget the rest
we can drown together, in a torrent of hot breath and the
raindrops I chase down your back
we can spit out our names and make new ones

I hope you’ve read the word I’ve written between every line,
just get your teeth ready again, honey
Just stretch your arms out and I’ll be your warm blanket
Just lie down here, relax
I’ll take it all away
I’ll do it all for you

10.

You’re not it, you’re not it, you’re not it, you’re not it.
I forget that every single time I open my eyes.
It’s easy to get mixed up when your hair smells so sweet, when you’re everywhere I look even though it’s like this.
I heard about him.
Reality sets in, it’s not just yes to your boyfriend, it’s no to me.
And now it’s hello to some other schmuck.
I’m looking through his pictures right now & hating myself for it, for every minute of it. Looking for pictures of you in pictures of him.
I get my wish & I hate myself for every minute of it. You’re laughing. I want to punch him in the fucking face.
He never did anything to anyone.
I want to take him by the ears and scream at him,
Tell him exactly what you told me & there’s no way he can give you what I could give you
and you didn’t even want it
What the fuck does that even mean.
You want to love me better.
You’re hurting yourself.
I’m fuming.
What if I want right now? What if I want right fucking now?

Now I hate those goddamn words I wrote.
I hate them because they scared you, and you know that I know. You know that I see it in your hunched shoulders every time you spot me walking toward you. You can’t hide & you didn’t even try to. You know what a coward you are. Yeah, you.
Why did I have to be so nice.
And you pulled at my shirt that night, that night you stood there & you pulled my shirt and I was just trying to get a beer and you looked up at me with those bullshit eyes & you let my friends see me falter when you touched my stomach
and I said, I said I said, I wasn’t sure & I shuffled my feet.
We had broken up, we had, and I said I wasn’t sure.
Now I gave you what you wanted didn’t I? And now you’re with that fucking guy.
You pulled my shirt remember?
You pulled mine.
I wanted so badly to not need you, to not write cliché poems about you.
Well, fuck.

9.

Whisper that into my ear.
Don’t open your lips too wide
Tell me secrets that you wear under your dress, and what is left after you wasted your day
Touch your fingertips to mine
Touch your eyelashes to my skin
I look at my bare shoulder and I think about you, & you should have kissed it
Sit on my lap and make me want you
Want to grab your thighs and also to watch you closely in that moment right before you start crying
Tell me creepy, scary things about you
No one else wants to know
and you think that I don’t either
Tell me even though you think I’ll run away
Be terrified
I want you to.
Get caught up, sucked under
Take that risk

8.

Strange how some things die
How grayish hollow boxes were computers a few years ago
Wire veins spilling twisted out
Bad movies get anticipated & then watched & then forgotten
Songs written and never listened to
Links, links, links, links, clicked once
T-shirts become trash
We think of living things
We think of cats dying
Even as we walk & we leave carcasses trailing after us spilling out of our pockets and stranded on the sidewalk
Empty snail shells
Empty drinking cups
Empty chairs
Stuff that doesn’t really matter that much
I’m philosophizing about junk
But I think about the things we forget sometimes & how there’s more to remember than we usually realize

7.

Pretty girl with dreads walks by.
Peeks around a bookshelf.
The hem of her skirt makes my fingers itch like typewriter keys make me want them, except her dress was plaid and cotton and she looked right past me. Green-shirted me.
We could have picnics in that dress,
Both wear it sometimes,
My moccasins don’t match it but you could teach me how to walk like you and wear those glasses if you saw me in the right lighting.
My green shirt looks pretty good too.
But I bet she’s straight like every other girl I meet, and then my friends call me a vulture for asking that freshman if she was gay Saturday night.
I want more boots & I want people to call me a dyke, does that answer your question?
We are black letters punched onto paper, you&I
We are supposed to sit close and create things like words
We are knitted like knobbly white thread woven into a sweater that I wear for comfort.
I want to break your heart.
I want to make you shake.

6.

My thumbs are all bloody
Usually I spend too much time thinking of reasons to shred up the skin around my nails
started it in tenth grade when I cheated on him
in front of him, too
My fingers all over this other guy’s back slapping him in the face with it every time he walked by
He hated it
I ripped my thumbs half open that night

Strange the things I think about while I’m listening to Lauren Bacall’s voice.
Strange how Humphrey Bogart holds her throat real tight while he kisses her
they always seem to hold thin little necks down as they push lips onto them
Say shut up & cover red mouths
red blood thumbs
Say baby, why don’t you pour me another whiskey

We could just blame it all on Eve, I guess

5.

I don’t really care that much where we go but I’ll go with you
As long as you drive that shitty car.
I’m in love with you.
All of these poems are for you,
I should maybe write that paper tonight like I told myself I would
But the sunlight is making me think about you
I don’t know why
I miss the 3 a.m.s that my friends stayed up with me and we were all on our computers and we made each other’s stomachs ache from laughing
Back when you weren’t really a big deal
I’m not sure how it got this way.

4.

I do love college but I’m having a hard time
not skipping classes to come in here and write things like this because I know no one will bug me
We could just make that the norm though yeah?
Like an asterisk after one of those rules of life we write (which I think are bullshit, but we still write them and I guess I probably do, too)
Amendment Number One: Any scheduled activity is subject to forfeit at the discretion of the Author of these rules, in such a time as Poetry demands to be written.

I’m sitting here in this red shawl
the kind old women wear
and glasses
I make a great poet, you think
Face lying bare with no makeup and I feel ugly, mind wanders cleaning lady across the shelf from me eyes unfocusing, that fucking bird screaming in some tree outside
head in the clouds like a lost balloon
Letters run around on the computer screen,
What am I even talking about.

It’s moments like these that Depression starts to squirm back in
So
I’ll just check Facebook for the thousandth time
and start reminiscing about old loves, these poems always turn into reminiscing about old loves
I should probably close that chapter, but I write such lovely things about it.

3.

Delicate, like flowers in your hair
Not like these words I drop down onto paper heavy
My red shoes, your gray sweater
our fingers are different sizes
I’ll say this a thousand times.
Libraries remind me of you now, silence makes me think about you
Sitting up here all alone for hours at a time & not really touching anything except letter keys & looking at pictures of you even though I know I probably shouldn’t
Soft and sweet like flowers in your hair
or the ways I never really got to finish putting my hands on yours
pages in old,old books
the thin kind
I wanted Sunday mornings with shallow sunlight
Tiny leaves
You are the last thing I remember.

2.

All this wind today, & bloody cramps & prayer beads in an attempt to bring you back.
You fucked me in the dream I had. Thanks for the hug you said. I was drunk. Grass clippings with blankets, beer, that art museum, Thai food, misunderstandings of who were we? Or are we?
You confuse me. I’m trying this new thing out where I look through people’s bullshit to find the love inside them. My problem was that it was always too easy to see yours. Your problem was that it was always too hard.
I hate the word heartsick and I think it is starting to describe me. Red flags waving in the windows, your echo as he tried his best but it was all for naught I guess.

Maybe this is where it starts, or maybe where it ends.
I’ll go back to Italy and forget you.

1.

A naked body
a biological representation of the species
I wonder what makes up body parts
Whose hands are more than just sinew & bones & networks of blood vessels?
My head is filled up with paper cranes
I remember what your fingernails were shaped like
My eyes are hurting from the sun
I remember the time that guy said he wanted to be my fuck-buddy
Everyone’s feet are padded like an elephant’s
and I can see my bra strap
He called breasts “fatty sacks of glands and tissue” and it’s gross and he’s right
It’s weird that humans can make music
that we have science
What else is out there?

Her Painted Boots

He looked in the mirror for the first time in two weeks, and did not recognize the man he saw. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, and a wanton beard shadowed his jaw. This foreign person was far removed from the man he should have seen in the mirror; that man wore ironed shirts, and carried a brown messenger bag. That man had clean hair. That man smiled.
The white tile of his bathroom chilled his bare feet as he stared into the mirror for five minutes straight. He saw nothing in his own face but deficiency. He had spent the last two weeks eating cereal from a mixing bowl, and flipping through the television with unseeing eyes. His sweatpants were beginning to emit a vague odor, as were the sheets on his bed and the blankets across his couch. His head throbbed as he watched himself breathe. Two weeks ago he had been infinite. Two weeks ago he had been the rising sun. Now he was blank.
He wandered out of the bathroom and down the hall, reaching the closet in his bedroom to search for a clean t-shirt. The moment the wooden doors creaked open, something light struck the top of his head. He bent down to pick up what had fallen, and saw that it was a lens cap. His heart sank. He remembered the professional camera equipment he’d stuffed into the top shelf, intending never to lay eyes on any of it for the rest of his life. He scowled at the piece of rogue plastic, and then glanced upward to see his gorgeous camera, shoved haphazardly amidst forgotten boxes and clothes that no longer fit. It lay unprotected against sharp corners that could crack its lens or break the flash off its body; its case was stored away elsewhere. His stomach turned, and he closed the closet doors. The lens cap fell from his hand to the floor.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and remembering the shrimp cocktails he’d eaten at his own premiere party. He relived the entire fiasco.
He remembered the way his photographs had looked in the art gallery, their sharp, black-and-white angles cast in harsh light from above or below. His name had begun to grow popular in the community and critics were sitting up to take notice of his talent, and when he had been approached about creating an original exhibit for the museum, he’d jumped at the chance to break into the world of high photographic art. So he’d designed an ambitious project, abandoning the heartfelt intimacy of his previous work to create gritty depictions of urban environments. He had toiled with meticulous obsession for three solid months, employing every trick he could remember to create what he hoped would be a fresh, modern exhibit. But when he finished the series, a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind had told him something had gone horribly awry. His pictures had been edgy to the point of pretentiousness, and his worst fears were realized when he saw the way people received his work at the debut of the collection. He recalled one woman’s face with sickening accuracy. She had cocked her head to the side, frowned, and then raised one eyebrow with skepticism. She’d then hurried away to chat with a friend, hardly glancing at any other photographs for the rest of the night.
He swallowed hard as he remembered the crucifixion he’d endured from the papers that following morning. Words like “unoriginal,” “inauthentic,” and “immature” had been thrown about, and the most mercy he’d received came from one patronizing critic who dubbed him “a rookie in the field, still growing into his paws.” Nearly every important photographer in the city had seen his exhibit, and every important photographer in America would read the reviews.
He had returned to his darkened apartment the night of the premiere without turning on the lights, dropped his camera case to the ground, and crawled straight into bed with his shoes still on. Two weeks later, he’d transformed into this. Every part of his body ached as he rolled over and attempted sleep.

A weak ray of light found his face, and the inside of his eyelids glowed red. He peered at the clock, which had somehow advanced twelve hours since he’d last looked. He released a groan, and stretched his arms above his head.
Just then, a knock at his door sounded through the apartment. He sat up in the afternoon light, and trudged down the hall. The knock came again, and he pulled the door open to find his neighbor, Katie, on the other side. He tried to rearrange his face into something more presentable than a groggy frown. “Oh, uh… Hey, Luke. Did I… wake you…?” she ventured.
“Yeah, I was just… napping.”
She was a slight young woman of about twenty-five years, with dark hair twisted into a knot on the back of her head, and various layers of colorful clothing draped over her frame. She’d helped him unpack boxes when he moved into the apartment complex, and proved herself to be a genuine friend in the years since.
“Oh, right,” she humored him. “Well… Okay, I know this seems completely random, but I bought these boots the other day, and they’ve got potential but they need some serious help. And I know you’re an artist and everything, so I just thought that maybe you could… decorate them or something? I mean, you can do whatever you want, but I just thought maybe you could help me…?” She presented a pair of battered army boots that smelled like a thrift shop, shrugging her shoulders and smiling. He narrowed his eyes at the shoes, and glanced at Katie’s face, biting his lip and beginning to shake his head.
“I really don’t know…”
“Please? It doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything…”
“I… I don’t know… I don’t paint or draw at all, and I’m not really a very good artist anyway… You should probably just ask someone else. I’m sorry,” he said. She looked at her sandaled feet and huffed a breath. “I’ll see you later, okay?” he offered as he began closing the door.
“Wait,” she said, her hand popping up to keep it open. “Look, I know you’ve been down lately. I heard about what happened with your gallery.” His face burned and he averted his gaze. “And I haven’t seen you in the hall for like, days, at least. God knows how you’re surviving in there without new groceries.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued. “All I’m saying is that we both know you don’t have anything else to do, and this would really mean a lot to me. Just consider it, okay? Will you just take the boots?”
He glared at them for a moment, clenched his teeth, and then found his hands extending through the door frame.
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Luke,” Katie smiled, placing the boots in his grip. And then, before he could react, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. He expected her to shrink away from his greasy hair and coarse cheek, but she held him in a solid embrace before pulling back, her hands on his shoulders, smiling straight into his eyes. “See ya,” she said, and turned to walk back down the hallway.
He closed the door behind her with his free hand, and looked around his apartment for a free space to keep her boots. He went to the kitchen counter, which was littered with ambiguous dirty dishes, and shoved a few used popcorn bowls aside to make room for the shoes. As he placed them on the counter and stood back to consider them, their imposing black leather and thick frame seemed more of a threat than an invitation. It was as though they could see straight through him. He lowered his eyebrows, muttered something about his sanity slipping away, and walked over to plop down on the couch.

Another three days passed in the same dim monotony, and Katie’s black boots stood silently in his kitchen. A part of him hoped that if he continued to ignore them, they might simply disappear. But he was beginning to feel that he’d chosen an inopportune place for the shoes, as he could see them from almost anywhere in his apartment. If he sat on his sofa to watch television, he could see the boots from the corner of his eye. If he walked into his kitchen to heat a bowl of Easy Mac, he passed right by them. If he entered or left the living room, they stood in his direct line of vision. Even when he lied in his bed, he could still see the right side of one boot down the hallway. They stood like a question mark in the back of his mind at all times, and he was beginning to suspect that avoidance was a fruitless endeavor. As much as he resented the idea of creativity these days, he couldn’t help but think of Katie’s face and the things she’d said in the doorway.
He walked into the kitchen one evening to investigate his refrigerator, and the boots stood as ever behind him while he looked. Grabbing an old cup of jell-o, he turned to them.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
They didn’t respond.
“You suck.”
At that moment, there was a knock at his door. “Perfect,” he muttered as he fumbled with the lock and handle. When the door swung open, Katie’s eyes met his.
“Hey, Luke!” she smiled. “How’s the project going?”
He looked at his bare, hairy feet and faltered. “Uh… it’s, um… fine? I just… yeah, I mean they’re not exactly finished…” She listened while he trailed off, and then stepped forward poke her head in the door. He tried to block her line of vision before she could see the extent of his filthy hovel, but she was too quick.
“Wow, Luke. The place looks really… different.” He didn’t attempt to defend himself. “But to each his own, I guess. And hey, relax about the shoe thing. I just came by to see whether it was going okay, but no worries. Just take your time,” she allowed
“Uh… Yeah, okay,” he exhaled, and she threw him a quick “bye!” over her shoulder as she left.
He closed the door, turned around to face his living room, and for the first time in weeks, he appraised the damage with bravery. His apartment bore a disturbing resemblance to a college fraternity house. There were dirty socks strewn across the back of the sofa, cups of half-drunk soda covering the top of the television, and some lumpy cloth mass that he did not recognize in the far corner of the room. He looked over at the boots, and they glared back at him from the other side of the room. At long last, he released a deep breath.
“All right! Fine, okay?” he said to the boots. “You win, dammit.”
And chuckling to himself, he began to clean.

He spent the entire day laboring with a damp brow, sorting dirty laundry into piles and putting loads in the wash, scrubbing mirrors and sinks, and clearing out floor space one trash bit at a time. The last room he came to was the kitchen, and he worked his way around the counter to where Katie’s boots stood. He cleared away every food-encrusted plate, every empty cereal box, every used-up whiskey bottle that lay around her shoes, and sponged down every surface he could find. At last, the boots stood alone, now seeming less like a question mark and more like a contented period. He paused, looking around his spotless living space, and heaved a sigh of relief. He turned on his heel and made straight for the shower.
Later that evening, he returned from the craft store with a large bag full of oil paint, fabric paint, acrylic paint, and several other variations that sounded promising, along with a slew of assorted brushes that the cashier had recommended. He transferred Katie’s boots from the kitchen counter to his table, which he had already covered with an old plastic tablecloth. Switching the radio to his favorite classical station, he sat down in his chair and gazed at the pair of boots.
At length, he picked up the right shoe. With no idea what to create, and no particular color scheme in mind, he squirted a blob of blue paint onto a paper plate, dipped his brush in, and put it to the black leather. He found his own hand arching gracefully across the width of the shoe, following a series of curves and loops that wisped along its seams and contours. He pulled his brush away, and smiled. It was the most beautiful blue swirl he had ever seen. He continued. First, he painted a tangle of blue and white flourishes across the top of the boots, and melting down the sides. He dipped his brush in water, and cleaned it out on a paper towel. Next, he chose green. Swift strokes lined the bottom of the shoe, reaching up to meet the blue in certain places, and mixing with splashes of yellow and stripes of darker green here and there. He continued in this way for hours, now using purple, then dipping his brush into red paints, even inventing new hues for the thrill of it. His hands grew tired, and he took breaks now and again, drinking root beer and conducting the invisible orchestra in his radio. He painted one boot, and then the other in just the same way, until strokes of paint adorned his nose, hands and shirt, and he had at last finished.
He stepped back from the table after completing the last corner of the shoe and setting down his brush, and he breathed freely. If boots had hands, he would have shaken them. They stood on the table to dry, and he made his way to the bathroom to clean up before bed.
The next morning, he woke up early and had a brisk shower. He took the boots up in his arms and traipsed out of his door and down the hallway. When he reached Katie’s door, he rapped his knuckles against it and stepped back in anticipation. The door opened after a moment, and as her gaze fell on what his arms held, warmth flooded her face and lit her eyes. She let out a laugh, and covered her mouth in apparent amazement.
“Oh… my God…” she beamed. He looked down at the boots, and saw himself reflected in their brush strokes.
The once dingy leather now depicted something akin to a fresh April morning. A swirled sky coiled around the boot’s ankles, grass sprouted up from its soles, and flowers twisted into its shoelaces. Katie reached out toward him, taking the boots into her arms and hugging them tightly.
“They’re perfect. They’re more than perfect. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled. “Believe it or not, I actually kind of enjoyed doing it.”
She grinned wryly. “Yeah, I thought you might.”
“Right,” he chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you around.”

Over the next few days, he spent his time searching the newspaper for want ads, and watching television programs he actually cared about. He reunited with his ironing board, and made several trips to the grocery store. One afternoon, while he was scouring the paper for job opportunities, someone knocked on his door. He swung it open to find an unexpected face on the other side. It was Angela from the second floor.
“Hey!” she smiled.
“Hi, Angela. How you been?”
“Oh, I’m pretty good.” He noticed she was holding something behind her back. “I saw the boots you made for Katie! Those were gorgeous.”
“Oh thanks, that’s really nice of you.” He waited for what he could see coming next.
“Well…” she ventured, shifting her feet. “I found this old bag that I’d stuffed away in my closet, and I really never use it, but I thought that maybe if you painted it, I might start wearing it again…” She looked at him from under her blonde hair and presented a gray messenger bag.
“I’m really flattered, Angela, but I’m not even sure I have it in me to make something like that again. I think it was kind of a onetime thing,” he said, not entirely convinced it was the truth.
“Oh. Gotcha, yeah, I totally understand. Sorry to bug you! I’ll see you later,” she said as she started off toward the end of the hall. He watched her walk and something pulled frantically at his insides. As she pushed the elevator button, he called out.
“Wait!” She turned over her shoulder to look back at him. “I guess… I mean, I guess I could try, if you really want to sacrifice a perfectly good bag.” She smiled, trotted over to hand him the bag and thanked him, and he closed his door as she walked back to the elevator. This time, he placed his new project straight on his table, which he’d kept covered in the same plastic tablecloth for what he thought was no particular reason. He felt a smile touch his cheeks as he went to grab his craft paints.
The very next day, he found himself standing outside of Angela’s apartment holding a messenger bag with a galaxy of stars and planets painted across its entire frame, and asteroids shooting down the shoulder strap. She opened her door at the sound of his knock, and seeing the new creation, erupted into a shower of hugs and heartfelt thanks. He laughed and handed off the bag, his hands still stained with shades of blue and yellow, and his feet barely touched the ground as he returned to his apartment.

Over the following weeks, word spread of his new talent, and neighbors from all corners of the complex came to knock on his door. He painted everything from trucker caps to sundresses, from baseball shirts to stiletto heels. The next month of his life was spent bent over his kitchen table, toiling with a brush in hand, mixing colors and mapping out new designs. No two pieces were ever the same, and every new painting lived up to the beauty of its predecessor. Before he knew it, his entire apartment building bloomed with color and life as its inhabitants sported the clothing he’d painted, and a new vibrancy seemed to light the air in its halls.
One crisp morning, he rolled out of bed and shuffled toward his closet. As he opened the wooden doors, something familiar struck the top of his head. He glanced down at the carpet to see that same lens cap sitting beside his foot. When he had cleaned his apartment the previous month, he’d placed the cap quickly on the top shelf again without looking upward, and now it appeared that the black plastic was determined not to be ignored. But this time, rather than scowling or cursing at the cap, he held it between his fingers and inspected it. He felt no pit in his stomach, no ache in the back of his head. He breathed freely as he looked at the lens cap, and before he knew it, he had reached up to the top shelf and removed his camera from its exile. Its cool metal rested heavy in his hands, and he felt as though he’d rediscovered his favorite song. Soon, every piece of camera equipment that he’d banished was returned to visibility, and he knew exactly what his next move would be.
That afternoon, he made his way up and down the halls of every floor in his apartment complex, knocking on doors and asking a simple favor: he requested that each person wear whatever he had painted for them, and meet him in front of their apartment building the following day. Every person he spoke to was more than happy to cooperate, and when he arrived outside in the bright sunshine of the next afternoon, he was met with a throng of chattering neighbors.
As the brightly colored crowd mingled under a blue sky, he unpacked the camera equipment he’d lugged down from his apartment, and with a slight shake in his fingers, he began to set up his shot. A few members of the multitude seemed to catch on, and a man from the third floor asked loudly whether they had been called together to help him with a photo shoot. A hush fell over most of the crowd.
“Yeah, guys,” he asserted, and swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’ve asked you all out here today to hopefully start a new series. I want it to be about all of you, and all the art that’s sort of sprouted up around here.” As he scanned the sea of faces, one smile stood out in particular. Katie stood amidst a group of young women, beaming at him in a yellow summer dress and her vibrant combat boots. He glowed from the inside out, and as he called out her name to come forward, she ran toward him and attacked him with the strongest embrace he’d ever received. They turned away from their neighbors and he searched for the right words to say.
“I just really wanted to thank you,” he began. “As cheesy as it sounds, I don’t think I’d be here if you hadn’t asked me to paint your shoes for you.”
She laughed graciously, and squeezed his hand. “Don’t mention it. Happy to help.”
“Could I ask a favor of you?” he said, looking down into her kind features.
“Sure! What’s up?”
“Would you let me take a picture of you? I mean, would you mind being the focus of this first one? Sort of like… a title page?”
Her face changed into something much deeper than happiness, and she looked out across the crowd he had gathered. “I would be more honored than I can possibly put into words.”
She walked over to stand in front of the camera, and he arranged the throng of people behind her into an evenly distributed mass of color and smiling faces. When everyone was in place, he focused his camera on Katie’s feet, and with a blur of multi-colored figures filling the background of the shot, he snapped his first photograph of her painted boots.

The Creek

Leah opened her front door at the sound of a knock, and Mary walked straight in without a moment’s hesitation. She was dripping in sweat and still wearing her track uniform, and she plopped down on Leah’s parents’ couch, muttering a quick “Hey” to Leah as she went.
“Well, hello there,” Leah called, still standing in the doorway.
“Are your parents going to care that my nasty feet are on your furniture?”
“Seriously? Have they ever cared in the, like, ten years that you’ve been hanging out here? I think they’re over it by now. Besides, they’re both still at work,” Leah answered. Mary nodded in reply. “So how was practice?” Leah asked, walking into the kitchen to search the pantry for after-school snacks. She could hear Mary complaining from the living room.
“It sucked! You’d think the coach would take eighth grade track less seriously. But no. Apparently us beating Hubbard’s team is, like, the biggest deal in the universe. He practically blew up at me when my times dropped today. I hate growing up…”
Leah grabbed a couple of grape sodas and walked back to where Mary was stretched out on the couch. As she lowered herself into a nearby arm chair, she noticed another fresh welt pluming on Mary’s upper thigh. It was the third one this month. Leah had heard her parents gossiping about Mary’s stepfather at home, throwing casual pity around for Mary’s mother and speculating as to why she had married him in the first place. When they refused to explain to Leah why Mary’s mother seemed so afraid of her husband, she made her own conclusions about the source of Mary’s bruises.
She found herself staring at the contusion until Mary shifted her legs uncomfortably, and Leah forced her eyes back to her soda can. They fell silent for a moment. Leah bit her lip, and then drew breath to speak, but Mary perked up first.
“Hey, remember that creek we always used to play at when we were kids? The one that was down at the other end of the neighborhood?” Leah flashed back to skipping across rocks with skinny legs, and swinging from stray tree branches beside Mary until dinner called them home. A smile warmed her cheeks.
“Oh my God, I haven’t thought about that place in forever…” Leah said. “We’re getting too old!”
“Yeah, I know! That’s what I was just about to say. There’s no way we’re going to high school in the fall.”
Leah smirked at the familiar topic. Mary had brought up their graduation from middle school at least once a week for the past few months, her voice always tinged with anxiety. But the closer they came to the end of eighth grade, the more Leah began to share her apprehension. The creek wound its way into her thoughts, suggesting itself as an untamed escape from the inevitable drudgery of growing older that now seemed ready to swallow her whole.
“Geez, where did those days go,” Mary said. “Those were good days, man. I mean, we used to play down there for hours on end, and it felt like minutes. And our parents didn’t even notice. I bet if I tried that now, Big Bruce would murder me.” Big Bruce was the name Mary always used to refer to her stepfather when he wasn’t around. Leah forced a laugh in agreement. “I’d love to get away like that again.”
“You know,” Leah said, “we never did follow it all the way down to the end.”
“That’s right! We always said we were going to…” The girls had concocted dozens of myths about the fantastical things they were sure lived at the end of the creek, like trolls with bags of gold to guard, or miniature mermaids who only lived in fresh water. “Well I guess we’d better go find it, then, since we’re all big and brave now,” Mary half-joked.
Leah laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. Before the high school monster eats us up.”
Mary stayed for dinner once Leah’s parents came home, and finished most of her homework in Leah’s bedroom. It wasn’t until Mary received a phone call from her stepfather, his voice blaring loudly enough for Leah to hear him from across the room, that Mary trudged back home for the night.

Leah lay in her bed that evening, not able to erase the image of Mary’s bruise from her mind. Mary knew she’d seen it, she was sure, but she had long since abandoned hope that Mary would confide in her the details of her home life. In all their years of friendship, nothing had gone unsaid between them until Mary’s mother brought home Bruce. Leah’s mind wandered as she stared at her bedroom ceiling…
She remembered the first night that she’d heard a smashing sound from Mary’s house down the street, and how Mary had come to school the next day wearing a long sleeved shirt in eighty-five-degree weather, looking shaken and refusing to answer any of Leah’s questions. She remembered all the nights that Mary had appeared outside her first-floor window, often with various dark patches adorning her skinny legs. Leah turned over in her bed, her stomach churning at the recollection. She remembered the days that she’d tried to talk to Mary about her stepfather, and Mary’s constant insistence that nothing was wrong.
Leah felt Mary’s walls growing taller and thicker around her despite Leah’s efforts to break them down, and the distinct mark of desolation was now a permanent feature on Mary’s face. Each day that Leah saw lonely shadows deepen under Mary’s eyes, she felt like screaming, “I’m right here! I’m right beside you!” She clutched her sheets and ran memories of their childhood through her head like vintage film, of unspoiled afternoons spent in the creek, when Mary had a single mother and bruise-free arms. Tears filled her eyes as she curled up tighter in her bed, sinking into sleep.

A sharp rapping sound broke the pitch blackness, and Leah jolted awake. She looked at the clock: 3:17 am. It had to be Mary. Stumbling across her bedroom, she drew back her curtains and saw a sweet, tear-streaked face peering at her through the glass. Mary’s arms had angry red marks swiped across them, and a purplish bruise was beginning to bloom under her collar bone where her blouse had been ripped. She stood feebly in the shrubs as Leah unlatched her window.
They sat on Leah’s bed for at least an hour, Leah wrapping a crumpled, broken Mary up in her arms as she released slow sobs into Leah’s shoulder. Her pajama top grew wet as she rocked Mary back and forth, stroking her hair and humming. When Mary’s breath began to slow, she lay down against the pillow and fell into a deep slumber. Leah gathered the few extra blankets she kept in her closet, making a palette on the floor next to the bed and trying to lull herself to sleep.
Almost the moment Leah’s alarm began squawking the next morning, Mary sat up and appraised the room groggily. Leah grumbled as Mary swung her feet over the bed, unlatched the window, and climbed back out. She was gone before Leah could even make her away across the bedroom. Leah released a sigh, locking her window back and turning to her closet to pick an outfit for the day.
At school that afternoon, Mary skipped into their math class wearing a high-necked sweater, and planted herself in the desk next to Leah. She pulled out her notebook and favorite pencil, and smiled over to her best friend.
“Hey!” she chimed.
“Hey…” Leah answered. She lowered her voice. “So… how are you?”
“Good! You?”
“Well I’m okay, but… you’re not. I mean, you weren’t last night.” Leah was whispering now.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mary, come on. Don’t act like that..”
“What? I’m not acting like anything. I’m fine,” she said, her smiling face marked with an air of finality. “So did you do the homework? I’m such an idiot; I couldn’t get number twelve at all.” Before Leah could push the subject further, their teacher entered the room and set them to work.

Mary waltzed into Leah’s living room that afternoon, her track jacket zipped up to her neck. Leah decided not to bring up the previous night’s events again, slinking into the arm chair across from the couch without a word instead. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and waited for Mary to speak.
“So, school sucked today,” Mary said. Leah agreed with a nod. “I want to do something fun for once. We should go down to that creek.”
“Tonight? Don’t you have homework or something?”
“Maybe. But I don’t really care. It’s just homework, right? And besides, the parents are really getting on my nerves. I just want to be out of the house.”
“Mary, you’re always out of the house.”
“You know what I mean.”
Leah considered for a moment, feeling a whispering urge in her stomach to revisit their old haven. She hoped that they would find something at the creek’s end, something magical, that could repair the mess in which they found themselves. She knew it was illogical, but something inside her hungered for it.
“Yeah, you’re right. Forget homework. Let’s do it.”
The two girls stepped out the door after leaving a note for Leah’s mother, and flitted down the road at top speed. After taking a few wrong turns and backtracking several times, they finally reached the place where the cement faded to gravelly grass, and the trees grew into one another to form a snarled canopy over a familiar little bridge. They smiled at one another in the aurous evening light, and ran straight to the platform. Mary arrived there first, marveling at the clear water running under her feet. Leah stood beside her, beaming. They agreed that it looked exactly like it used to (though a little smaller), and walked to the opposite bank to begin their descent into the murmuring water.
Mary led the way down the creek bed, negotiating her way from rock to rock, each one more threatening than the last. The two girls laughed as they stepped accidentally into the current countless times, reminiscing about the days when their miniature feet could fit on the stones. They passed a tangle of old tree roots jutting from the right bank, remembering having used the mass as shelter on those countless occasions when life at home had been so dreary that they vowed to live in the creek forever. Memories flooded through Leah’s mind as she balanced on a narrow pass of sand, watching Mary’s frame light up with a childish spark that hadn’t been visible for years.
As they made their way downstream, the sky dimmed to a grayish purple. By the time Mary noted the thinning trees, the sun had already dropped below the horizon.
“Leah, look! I think we’re almost to the end!” Mary squealed and grinned back at her best friend, and Leah glowed from the inside out. The girls had never come this far down the brook, and Leah’s pulse quickened as the landscape grew stranger. They picked up speed, and Leah noticed that the creek was beginning to shrink, and the banks were becoming level. The girls began giggling and teasing one another about the miraculous and mythical creatures that were now just yards away from them, arguing over whether they were likelier to find fairies or gnomes.
All at once, they broke into an open space. The girls stood stock still, their laughter cut off. The creek dribbled lazily into a concrete drainage ditch that lay fifty yards behind a foul-smelling bar. They could hear the sounds of the street on the other side of the structure, of honking cars and drunken shouts, and the dull thud of an angry bass line inside the building. They stood at the edge of the concrete ditch in silence, and Leah’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. She had known the end of the stream wouldn’t be perfect, but she had still hoped for more than this. This place was ugly, and barren. Every ounce of magic they had found in the creek came crashing down around them in that one instant. She didn’t dare look at Mary’s face. The sky had faded to black, and no stars were visible over the bar’s glaring lights.
After several moments of wordlessness, a series of slurred jeers fell on Mary and Leah’s ears. They looked in the direction of the noise to find two staggering men coming away from the back wall of the bar, zipping up their jeans and beginning to stumble toward the two girls. Leah’s whole body tensed up as she heard them send cat calls over the air, and watched them nudge one another hungrily, their rosy faces leering. She glanced at Mary’s face, which was painted with sickening recognition. Her eyes were wide with fear as she met Leah’s gaze, and she hissed one frantic command: “Go!” Leah turned instantly and tore off for the creek again, her blood surging. Not ten strides in, she heard a crash and a squeal behind her. She looked back to see Mary scrambling to right herself as the two men drew nearer. Leah ran back and pulled Mary up by the hand, keeping a tight grip on her best friend as they both raced through the water, pant legs soaking, all the way back up the creek. Her breath ripped through her chest, but she kept pace with Mary’s long strides and didn’t dare look back.
When they had finally run the length of the creek, sprinted across the tiny bridge and made their way down a side street in their neighborhood, they slowed to a halt and collapsed into the grass at the edge of a public park, their feet lolling over the edge of the curb and onto the asphalt. Leah sucked in sharp breaths, and Mary sat shaking next to her, staring at the ground and wringing her hands. Leah leaned back on her arms, letting her head fall against her shoulders. She released a few more breaths, and her pulse slowed.
A moment passed in silence before Mary opened her trembling lips to speak.
“Hey, um…” she said in a small voice, “thanks for… for, you know, not leaving me back there. I mean, I really thought you were just gonna leave when I tripped and stuff, but… you… you still…” she trailed off.
Leah turned her head to look at Mary’s face: it was obstructed by tangled hair and hunched shoulders. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, and her back trembled with covert sobs. Leah got to her knees and repositioned herself to sit right at Mary’s feet, looking up into her streaked features. Leah’s eyes began to well up, too.
“Of course I did. I would never leave you behind. I’m here. I’m always here. I wish you knew that, about… about everything that’s happened.” She placed a hand on Mary’s face, and Mary placed her own hand over it. After a moment, Mary met Leah’s gaze through watery eyes.
“I do know.”
Leah felt those words wash over her like pouring rain. She had never heard Mary say anything like that before. At that moment, Mary reached out and embraced Leah fully, not shaking, not whimpering, not slumping. Leah squeezed her back, and they held each other tightly, tears streaming down both sets of cheeks. At length, they pulled apart and stood up slowly together, Leah wiping the tears from Mary’s face, Mary brushing the hair from Leah’s eyes, each helping the other to her feet. Leah braced her arm around Mary’s waist, allowing her to lean her head on Leah’s shoulder as they started off together down the road.
“No more secrets?” Leah asked as they walked.
“No more secrets.”