Realism...for people in reality.

We're running out of things to call it

"I know," she said.

It hurts. 

"I can't hear you."

I feel heavy. Like my blood turned into lead. 

"Keep moving."

I'm frozen. 

"You'll thaw."

There's only so much I can do. I can't read anymore. 

"I had good thoughts today."

We can't always speak of such things.

Let's just get this over with...

There are footsteps outside. Some in a hurry. Some that don't really belong here anymore. They make too much noise. They never stop at my door. I blink. My eyes are dry. I have been laying here staring out the window at this tree behind a streetlight. It's wearing fall colors. But it's not beautiful like you'd read in a book or a poem. It's disgusting. It looks like illness, like suffering, like change. There isn't a cloud in the sky and the streetlight is modern and dirty. Nothing looks like it's in its right place. All these fucking houses look the same. I've got to get away from this view.


Years ago I wrote about this tree, this streetlight. It was a month when all the houses had their Christmas lights up, but mine. The sky was grey, and I wasn't sad, I remember. I wrote this piece about the tree from a man's perspective. It was shit. It was foolish of me. I still don't know how men think. They probably don't ponder over Christmas lights.


I can't look at the tree for much longer. I wish I could stay here until the sky turns black and the streetlight becomes useful, but my body aches and my brain needs a shower. I worry that the smell of smoke, and sex, and rum, and roses, and beer, and perfume, and vomit, and sweat, and pine, and toothpaste, and hairspray, and adolescence will never wash off completely. I'll always catch the smell when I least expect it. Everything now will remind of something then, and I will hold my breath until I know how things will pan out. I have been holding my breath, did you know?


So I scrub until my skin turns red, and then breaks, and my eyes aren't so dry anymore. I scrub so that the list, the aforementioned list that sits atop my chest at night, is gone; becoming new scars that just trace the old ones.
I stand naked in front of the mirror. Reflected. Reflecting, constantly. I see messages I wrote myself, like post-it's on the fridge or notes in margins.


Things to Remember...

• Hope
• Balance
• Keep Growing
• Levity
• Build yourself back up when you've broken
• Heal from the inside, out. 
• "Tomorrow I shall sing more sweetly."
• "Try and live."

Sometimes I'm good at not listening. Not leaving. Not paying attention. Not using my head. Not seeing.
I'm better at disappearing.

If you asked me once, "Kailee, why don't you ever write anything for me?" this is for you. It's not about you though, sorry.

     I wasn't looking for anything in particular. Let's say it's a bookstore, but then, knowing me, I would've gone in there knowing what I wanted. Ok, I got the book I wanted, but since it was my day off and I had nothing else to do I was browsing for fun. I glanced around the store like I always do because I'm a.) paranoid and b.) convinced I'll see someone I know. I usually don't, but I always think the time I don't look it'll suprise me. I usually don't these days because I'm in a new place.
     Then I saw you.
     I'm going to say it had been a year, but I'm not very good with time. A year seems long enough for me to be slightly over you, secretly yearning for this run-in, and for my hair to be longer, signifying a passage of time and my new mature self. You didn't know I'd moved. Or you might have heard, but we weren't speaking anymore so why would I think you knew? Regardless, you didn't see me yet, I saw you first. Maybe that's how this all started anyway. Or maybe I'll only ever know my side of the story.
    Deep breath.
    This is usually as far as I get. I imagine I'd start playing with my loose braid (because I braid my hair now that it's long) and picking at my nails because that's an old nervous habit. I resist the urge to phone anyone and tell them about the trainwreck that's about to happen. Because no matter what happens I'm sure I'll still be a little pessimistic in a year and would classify anything as a trainwreck. Some girl friend will tell me I'm being nuts. I will still appreciate it.
     And there you were.
     "Shit." That's what I thought. You saw me and I wasted all of my preperation for witty banter playing with my braid. You're walking closer and, in my mind, you look exactly the same. But you have a new shirt. And you look tired, but healthier I hope. I make that face I make when I want to smile, but I'm pretending to be unaffected. I made it a lot around you. Maybe in a year you'll still recognize it.
     And that's where it ends.
     I want to think we'd have an awkward exchange of "How are you's?" and "How are all those things you wanted to accomplish working out's?" I'll try to sound more put together than I am, but I'm a little more put together than most so I figure we'll break even. You'll have done things I expected and feared. In this moment I remember how I quit smoking so when this is all over I have to leave without a crutch. We'll be newly decorated and make small talk about small things in this big picture. I'll end the conversation earlier than I want to, because you're still hard to leave, and I'm always far too easy to hold on to. You'd walk with me outside, because if anything you were always polite, we'd hug. It'd be the long kind that breaks your heart. I'd will myself not to look back as you walked away. I'd assume you were as unaffected as I tried to seem. I'd wonder where the rest of your day took you.
     And then I'd go home and read my new book. 
     Isn't that the absolute worst way to end this? It doesn't matter, though. None of it does.