Saturday, April 4, 2009

The Girl She Used To Be

I am tired of living, but what keeps me from dragging a blade across my wrist or diving off one of the crippled bridges that cross the polluted rivers my motel rooms predictably border is the idea of life-that somehow, someday, I will figure a way to experience what it is like to live in unfettered happiness, to bask in the freedom of security, and finally understand the person I am supposed to be.
I am tired of....dreaming about it.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 10:38 P.M. and I can't help but think the night is young. Somewhere.
I open the door to my motel room and walk away.


"Melody," he says, grabbing a blanket from the closet and wrapping it around me, "you don't need to seduce me." He takes a step closer and cups my face with his hands and says, "I'm yours already."


I don't have a name.
I don't know what to do.
The only thing I know for certain is that I must begin to heal. Just like every time my life was re-created, I had to begin restoring the foundered part of my being: the lost relationships, the familiarity of a neighborhood, the sense of the person I might have been. There is an algebraic term for the technique for distributing two binomials, called the FOIL method. It stands for first, outer; inner, last. And that is exactly how I have learned to repair myself time after time: from the outside in.


My interest-okay, obsession-with math is genuine, and has been since the first time I was ripped away from the life I loved. I buried myself in numbers and word problems where an answer was certain (or at least in the back of the book) and I knew I'd found something I could count on.


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