And at the stroke of midnight, I run:
leaving a shoe on the seventh or thirteenth step. It is cornflower blue: the color of
a blind child’s eyes. Down I go, down staircases of vertebrae, all the while
hearing the click-clack of the remaining kitten-heel rubbing blisters in my left
ankle. Red little moons I’ve rawed down to fine lean layers. They’re angry with
me, but everyone’s always angry with me. My feet: they shout; I say: shut up, will
you? I’m running from a man in the dark where everything’s all corners. I’m always
waking up finding ropes of stars clutched under my breast, the moon hung all
wrong—upside down or inside out, looking like the fresh hemorrhage of
watercolor, covered in comet dusk or chalk and wearing the night like a velvet
dress. I wish I dressed as well as the universe. Let’s at least try. I’ve always been
obsessed with great wide spaces—agoraphobia my ass. Let’s shout from steeples
and nail down clover like American flags on moons. The point is to live like
galaxies from a long time ago and far away. Science fiction word crawl: I love you,
baby. Speak Skywalker to me. And look good while doing it—running from the
prince. He’s a pest. I hope one day you and I can realize that. He says he loves
me (you) despite the loveyounot petal he plucked from the daisy earlier today.
The sky was low and the color of prep school uniforms. Too dark to be blue and
too light to be black. Repercussions for hearts made of straw—flicking Bic
lighters with thumbs like grapes left too long in the sun. I’m too old for the nail
polish I’m wearing. It’s the color of bubblegum stuck under desks with clumsy
glitter chunks like fuchsia icebergs. All sloppy. I’m sloppy.
Not a creature is stirring, not even you. Goodnight, sweet prince.