skipping rope

Photograph by Anna Wane: https://annakwane.com/

Image for skipping rope

Brian loved to run everyday. I was never sure from what demons until he ran right out of my life.

I skip rope. Only. In the same place. I skip until all of my demons melt and evaporate from my mind. The first time it worked I thought it was genius and almost called the doctor to tell her thank you but her services were no longer needed and that I always knew the nights I felt my mind waking up, stretching, yawning, packing its bags and starting to leave me were a lie.

I feel like my mind is rushing fast towards a cliff and jumping and then changing its mind and jumping back onto the cliff and laughing at me and telling me to stop being so uptight.

Brian got it right. Beat me at life again. He knew how to run. At least.

I just jump here. On the spot. And this rope it switches between a smile emoticon and a sad face emoticon. Taunting me.

I knew it was coming too- the day that I would drag myself out of bed, remove my work clothes, convince myself to pick the rope up, put on Jane the Virgin so that I do not have to listen to myself and skip and still the lonely sadness does not molt from my skin.

The first day it happens I tell Brian. I don’t know that I’m telling him but I’m seated next to him and my mind is on a surgical table between us and a mind is not nakedness that you should cover it with leaves in a garden.

The second day I tell my other half, but it aches her. She limps like a wounded bird to a nest and I feel guilty for sending her there. The next time she comes looking for me I only come out if I have scooped sunshine and used it to rouge my cheeks.

The third day I tell my sculpture. Her arms are longer than her body and she reaches out and hugs me and her arms coil many times around my torso. And it is no longer possible for me to fall down like a series of connected sausages. I love her for it. And I am scared of her love for it. I decide that her limbs are long so they’re thin so they’re fragile and the weight of my demons will break them but not give them the dignity of a complete death and the demons will look at her broken and laugh without remorse. So I pack my bags in stealth the way my mind and Brian taught me. The demons laugh at me because they think I can’t leave. When I do it shuts them up but silence is also revenge. I can’t feel anything and I almost seek them out but I love the silence even if it tastes like cassava but people see me and they ask after my demons while sighing too much. How are they doing. What happened to them. Oh they moved. But they were so funny. Can you imagine?

The fourth day I keep still even though everything inside me is trembling and then I change my mind and tell the 18 dolls queued at the hudson and then I change my mind and I stay quiet and you won’t believe it but I get pregnant and it’s a round ball that makes me unable to see my feet except my toes and I give birth to exactly myself and I try to fool everyone that finally here is my Apiyo whom you’ve been looking for but they know that it is exactly me again. And can you imagine I gave birth to myself? I now understand why mothers confuse themselves for God. I rock back and forth. I could be god. I could be god. I could be god.

The fifth day I tell two flowers. They make their stems rigid and they let me lie down on their petals.

The sixth day I don’t tell anyone. But it doesn’t feel powerful like the drunkenness from giving birth to yourself.

I am scared that the seventh day is my last chance so I keep waking up on the sixth day.

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