Je t'aime.

I had spent two hours strangled in the attic of my parent’s house, trying to squeeze that white liquid out, because I wanted the fizz and boil that made me scream. There wasn’t any imagining of that tunneled boy with the fear of the automobile though. In the epilepsy of his inner turmoil, easy earthquakes of silence were handed out, because they had been something Joan Didion partially drooled in rare paragraphs of Play As It Lays, where Maria is someone flying across strips of highway, as a form of running away soundless.

In the bathroom twenty minutes later, Malia walked in on me naked and stared at the half-crescent breasts, with curiosity shaping everywhere along the pinkish outline of the mouth. Saliva even dripped shyly from one curved cave with her red gums and softly discolored teeth. She walked up to a box of tampons and made the daring inquiry. Likewise, the dialogue had after that was something sharp and truthful, and she left the bathroom crying. At just six years old, I had ruined her life. “You’re female, darling. We’re made weak this way. But I mean, that isn’t being weak is it?” Her tears proved understanding.

At a department store, I let hands flutter across undergarments and planned the selective nature of being nude. Bras in bright colors bored the inner anxiety I had ramming the rib cage. I knew I’d be slaughtered in just a couple days, and this knowingness, censored my reasonability. I ended up buying an awful six pack of baggy old grandma undies. The shine and lace of them, made me feel like I was a salty nymph, and this was all I really wanted. When the dirty cloth was painted with that of my inners, I’d laugh and examine this. 

After that I took Kekoa and Malia to the confectionary shop down on main street, and walked across the bridge singing about gypsies and ghouls. Kekoa was articulating everything extra well and I was in shock by just how much he had grown up. I guess, I had forgotten that I hid under a rock most days and focused too much on myself. His transformation validated this only too well.

At the candy shop, Malia chose to get a cookie dough waffle cone, and Kekoa got the same. We were just inside my favorite bookstore that was located near-by and I stood lovingly reading a wildflower terminology hand-guide.

While there, Kekoa had a quick fit of lunacy that reminded me well of Woody Allen. “Sometimes I get so upset.”, he said. “It’s like things need to look a certain way; if something is placed wrong, then my insides go all sick and horrible. I always have this weird feeling that something is incomplete and it really irritates me.” He also went on to say that everything must have a reason and fit into some sort of logic for it to make sense. What’s strange, is that this idea hurt me. I wanted to break the rules in his head, and slap him laughter.

As we were walking to the gas station to buy Bret some “sticky buns”, there were two small dogs on leashes that barked. He jumped half a mile, before telling me about a recent dream he had. I remembered vaguely that he had tried mentioning it before, but it never seemed to absorb until his re-telling. 

In the dream he was attending his first day of middle-school and was met with much crisis there — he was late to all his classes, and his teacher’s supposedly all hated him. After coming back from school though, he saw me and David outside befriending a monster that was purple. Bailey (our family dog), didn’t like this monster, and turned vicious. Kekoa had to hold onto his leash to keep him under control. Once getting back home, he quickly realized he was cut all over and was bleeding really bad. Thus, explaining his reaction.

This same sort of abrupt explosion, took place in a music store later. It was a building that was bare and had just one piano sitting inside it. In a spare corner, there sat a large drum, which Malia thought to walk over and touch. The owner was a tall lady with poofy blonde hair and she barked at Malia to stop. “You wouldn’t want to break those! They’re expensive”, she snarled. I bit my tongue, and wanted to call her a bitch, but didn’t. I should have though.

The same night, I cradled a phone in one hand. There was that loud harsh voice demanding nothing. Margaret Atwood’s The Tent was read in a quickened way, so that the words came colliding achingly and swam into each other nice and bad. There was something erotic about it, but it didn’t fall out sharp. There was something blurred and false too, and I should have known then that what was being read, wasn’t ever really intended for me anyways.