May Day, And I Mean It

A sinking sun's sorbet glaze covered the forest floor where Lily and I ran for fun and for the beautiful lack of traffic sounds.

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I remember the shoes I wore to the mental hospital. Black heavy heels with a drastic wide buckle on top. That night someone took my shoes and showed me my room without a door. I had a scratched polished steel mirror. You see the screen on the windows? the guy asked. You would need 400 pounds per square inch to puncture that, he said. 

But I saved my strength for the screaming. After a day of silence, stale bread, and vivid orange juice the next morning, I burst. A few weeks later and a little stranger, I left.

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I've been doing it in trade. Shed a little blood and maybe somebody loves you in return. This isn't a compromise. This isn't a deal. This is real life lived deep down in the gut where the flesh is damaged. We're all shaky mosaics of childhood dreams and broken hearts, wishes made on Friday nights or in old slippers on a Sunday. 

It's not random. We don't answer the doorbell and let our lives walk in.  This is face-to-face trades we make, juggling singeing desires for a life that won't make our hearts burst. We either do what we can live with, or can't live without.

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