Oddly Enough

The window to my left is open, and a breeze wafts in, ruffling the flowered curtains and brushing my withered cheek. I can hear birds outside, but my voice in my head is slowly increasing in volume, slowly drowning out their twitters and calls.1

Trying in vain to block it all out, I straighten my books and pick up my stack of papers, tapping it on my wooden desk to line up the edges. I line up my pencils just so, and let out a moan.2

-Say it, say it-, I think.3

I have a poem about myself. Strangely enough, now that I think about it, I could have used it when I was younger. Of course, odder still, if I was somehow able to read it then, I would not have had the opportunity to have written it now.4

-Say it now-, the voice is louder still.5

I stare at the wall in front of me, and chant the words to myself:6

“You’re powdering your face even as your tears run down,
eventually ruining all your expensive lace.
You see them behind you in the mirror,
they act like they care,
the outlines only appeal to them, they with their pretty (fake) smiles and sparkling gems.
Back to you.
Your face is lined,
makeup caked on the hide the blots of age,
the restaurant is your setting,
the bathroom floor your stage.
You’ve always surrounded yourself with the best,
with slanted views and jewelry boxes, and
now you’re stuck with all the rest.
You’re tight-lipped,
your hair is gray,
your teeth are chipped (maybe it was all those crystal wine glasses),
and no amount of gold can ever, ever keep your age away.
You’re so used to the ballroom,
your pearls and your chandeliers,
you are suffering even more with your inevitable doom.
Back to them, those angular faces wiping false tears on their silk hems.
Those with their diamond barrettes, metallic eye shadow and chain cigarettes.
They purse their lipsticked lips and pretend to cry for you,
deep in their theatrics,
wiggling their hips."7

I start to really cry, my voice breaking. I blot my face with a rumpled tissue, my breath gasping.8

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. I take a long, shuddering breath, and continue.9

"They all surround themselves with the glamour, the pills,
sunflowers beneath their windowsills,
their complexions clear and chalky white,
their intentions dark and their looks blank and light.
You cry for you, only you,
the bruises under your eyes a deep purplish blue.
Tell them, tell them the biggest secret, those with the big bright eyes, those living the ultimate lie,
tell them what they’ll never forget.
They’ll soon be you.”10

As soon as I finish the poem, I start to applaud, my hands ringing in the empty room. 11

"Bravo!" I say, "bravo!"
I start to wail with my eyes squinched shut. I'm clutching my sides, trying to stop myself from shattering.
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I remember being quite the poet when I was younger, aspiring always to be rich and famous, without a care in the world. The biggest draw, though, was getting my words out there, having a voice that could reach out and touch everyone. I wanted to be that voice, the voice to inspire and draw out the emotions some people never even thought they possessed.13

I wrote like mad about everything, from things that went on in my day, and, as I got older, some feelings I did not yet understand. Most of my poems just dripped with sarcasm, and I was delighted with them all.14

When my mother died, my poems turned darker. My father started to be concerned, but I brushed him off, continuing with my writing, making it more and more brutal, with graphic descriptions and thought provoking ending lines. I thought that I was just setting the stage for my success.15

Then I reached an age where things that were educational were abhorred. I threw away writing, choosing to be more like the other adolescents I surrounded myself with day after day. I became the beauty queen, the selfish little shit that everyone both hates and loves. Yes, yes, I know, how very cliché of me.16

Now, don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy it, every minute of it. I loved the glamour of it all, and the attention. I managed to convince myself that it wasn’t poetry or writing that was my calling, my role was just to… be. Be in the spotlight, no matter what. I lived for that.17

I will remember forever what changed my mind. I was twenty two, living in New York. I and two of my dearest and closest friends (hmmpf) were going back to the apartment we shared. The streetlights were harsh, but they did not reach very far. We were walking on the edge of the lights, standing both in shadow and in what felt like the normal world.18

We started to cross a bridge, and I could see several figures start on the other side. They were just shadows, outlines. We kept walking, our high heels clicking on the sidewalk, almost blocking out the sounds of the slight waves below us. The shadows got closer, and we got closer to the shadows.19

-Push her-20

I still don't know why the voice appeared. I ignored it, but a longing started up in the very bottom of my stomach, a twisting, churning feeling. I looked at my friend. She was walking close to the railing, a cigarette in her hand. She looked at me, her blue eyes staring into me under all that metallic purple eyeshadow.
"What do you want?" She asked me, quite nastily.21

I shook my head, brushing her off.22

-Now!- It took everything not to just reach out my arm and.. push. That would be all. The bitch would probably just swim away once hitting the water, anyway.23

I looked back to the shadowy figures. They were getting clearer now.24

The urge was expanding, increasing with every intake of breath.25

-Pretty little baby,
push her off the bridge.
She'll protest,
but no one else will disagree.-26

I hadn't written a poem in years. This one flowed through me, and I couldn't help but say it out loud, the words breaking out in an almost unintelligible rush.27

Both of my friends looked at me, and the shadowy people walked by faster, their steps hurried.28

"What the fuck?" 29

The words only made me angry. Rage flooded through me, and another little poem spewed from my lips in a singsong voice. 30

"Pretty little bitches,
push them and let them drown.
If they survive, just chase them down.
Look on the brighter side,
in a ditch they won't be found."31

I started to run, trying to stop the voice in my head.32

They didn't run after me.
-----------------33

Over the next several years, the voice continued to bother me. If I chose to ignore it, it only increased in volume until it was blocking out everything else, ear shattering only in my head.34

I wrote new poems every single day. They came to me by way of the voice, like the first two poems. If I resisted, the twisting feeling in my stomach returned, until I broke and wrote them down.35

I carried paper and pens around with me everywhere out of necessity. My arms, and sometimes my legs, were always covered with ink. The voice didn't care what I was doing or where I was- I frequently found myself stopping in the middle of a crowded sidewalk to scribble a line or two on my arm or in a notebook. My walls were covered with tiny letters from instances where I could not get my hands on a scrap of paper fast enough.36

I didn't really sleep. I cried, every night, sitting in a chair by the window, a pen in hand. I would scribble and scratch on the paper, sobbing and wailing, not even bothering to stop the flow of my tears. They would eventually drip onto the paper, blurring the black ink.37

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I'm much older now. The voice still hasn't left me alone. Now, there is scarcely a moment that I have to myself.38

-Read!-39

I open my mouth to recite my poem, the words breaking the most recent sob.40

"The stars are out and the shutters are closed.
We're still awake,
pen in hand,
make no mistake.
We'll be here,
until all our secrets are exposed."41

I stop speaking, my sighs and sniffles the only noise in the apartment.42

"That was the worst poem I have ever heard," I say.43

-Fuck you.- The voice said lazily. The words weren't angry, like I had expected them to be.44

-How old are you, anyway? Shouldn't you be above such insults? I really don't see you writing anything better.-45

I narrowed my eyes. "You know how old I am. I am writing all of this, you ARE ME."46

-Yeah, yeah. No, no, no. I am YOU. Look in the mirror.-47

The churning feeling returns. It increases with every second, and I feel like I am going to throw up. I sit in the chair for exactly two minutes, before getting up and heading into the bathroom.48

I stand in front of the mirror, and flip on the light. It flickers, then fills the messy bathroom.49

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I'm not old.
My light brown hair is French braided. My cheeks are dotted with freckles. My skin is smooth, and there is not a wrinkle in sight. My girlish, almost curveless body is clothed with a white t-shirt and flannel, flowered pajama bottoms.50

The only thing the contradicts my youthful appearance is the dark purple bruises under my greenish yellow eyes.51

I could barely pass for thirteen.52

A door opens. I hear someone coming in. A nurse, dressed in a white uniform, clutching a glass and a handful of pills, fills the doorway.53

"There you are, Percelaine. It's time to take your pills, dear," she says with a smile. She holds her hands out to me.54

I look back at the mirror. The only one I inspire with my “voice” is me.55