Clams

The air was warm but the sun was gone—the lake was usually sunny and bright, but not today. I wandered along the rocky shores, watching the tall figure ahead of me. He called back that he would be walking around the curve of the island, and I nodded my consent. I stayed where I was. Clam shells dotted the ground, standing out against the smooth pebbles. The nearer I got to the water the more shells I saw, until they began to be not just empty fragments and broken half shells, but full clams. Most were partially submerged in the sand, with the water lapping over them. The clams were everywhere—mottled brown, slightly oblong circles in great quantities, almost as numerous as the rocks. I felt them—sharp edges and smooth centers underneath my wrinkly feet. Walking in the cool water all day had numbed me slightly to the sensation.

I crouched low to the ground, plucking one single clam from its’ watery home. I held it above me and watched it close tightly, sealing out any chance of me prying it open. My young body held itself taut above the grit underneath, excepting the slight bulge of my thighs as they squeezed out of my swim suit bottoms. I held myself carefully in that crouched position, not daring to feel the cool water lap at my rear.

I held the clam in one hand and held myself steady with the other. I looked around the water near me and selected a large rock. Then I crawled out of the water to find another rock that would stay anchored in the ground. When I found it, I placed my clam on top, and slightly brought the rock in my hand down upon it.

Nothing.

The second time I smacked much harder, and instantly felt the clams’ delicate outer home crack and crumble between the two rocks. Disgust filled me as I looked down upon the light pink flesh that I had so desired to see, being pierced and bothered by the sharp fragments that had once been its’ safe place.  One organism, sentenced to death by curiosity. Could I claim curiosity though? Or was it another emotion entirely? I could almost see a tiny pulse in the pink meat that was spread across the rough sandstone. Delicate and exposed and hurt—the clam had not meant to vulnerable. I had taken it there.

The barely swirling waters around me threatened to pull my now-dead clam back into the watery grave where they all came from. The sound of approaching footsteps pulled me out of my horrified revelry. My hasty attempts to cover the clam were not in vain.

There was no trace of my shame on the beach that day. The clam lay buried beneath sand that would soon wash away, leaving simply the leftover shell of an unsuspecting clam.

The Girl

He could never sing. Not really. I mean, he could hold a note, and his voice was nothing to cringe at—but by no means and in no way was he a singer. Which made it all the sweeter when he did sing to me. Sometimes at night, after long movie viewings coupled with sessions of sticky summer kisses, I would be tired and while holding me in his arms he would just start singing. It was always very quiet, and it was always made up lyrics about me. Sometimes just my name, over and over, and then something about how much he loved me, or how beautiful I looked. Those hazy moments during the summer were one of the many losses I faced while we transitioned ourselves into fall. We were both suddenly busy—I had two jobs, and he had work and school, and we no longer celebrated our quiet moments by lying down beside each other and enjoying the darkness.

We had fewer and fewer moments under his blanket, whispering and laughing as quietly as possible while he fumbled to find me in the folds of the covering. He would feel his way along my face, finding my lips with his own, but usually finding my nose, chin, or cheek first.

We didn’t have that as often because life had happened, and we suddenly had to force time to slow down for us. This was so unlike we had ever been before. We were supposed to have it easy. The world had been ours.

Halfway through our only summer I listened to a certain song, and showed it to him later. He liked it.

“When you cry, a piece of my heart dies, knowing that I may have been the cause. If you were to leave, fulfill someone else’s dreams, I think I might totally be lost”

It was our secret song. I played it constantly, falling in love with him, but also with the song, and the idea of someone loving me that much. I had a fantasy where he sang the song to me to propose. Made all the more meaningful, of course, by the fact that he was never very good at singing. It would be flawed and perfect if he sang it to me.

But we never got that chance.

The familiar guitar chords and soft words interrupted my studying one day. Curious, I stepped into the kitchen to discover my roommate and best friend listening to it, eyes shining. How could she know, how could she not, does she not realize, does she not see? My heart was full, my eyes were thankfully dry, but the stinging sensation in my nose warned of tears.

“Isn’t this so perfect? It’s the perfect song! I know he’ll love it. And it can be our song!” the words made no sense to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

 It wasn’t hers to take. It meant something to me.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

We would never dance to it; never listen to it together again.

The song, my song, his song, our song.

It wasn’t for anyone else but us. How did she not realize? It wasn’t hers to take.

Ribbit

You once told me that you hate the sound of your own voice. And I knew you didn't mean that the way that other people do. It’s normal to dislike the yawping or the simpering as it falls from your own mouth. Yet your hatred was different. Rather than simple disdain, you were insecure about your voice. I've never met someone like you—never met someone quite so upset by that old familiar sound. You hear it from the first few uttered words, and it never leaves. I would assume you would just accept it. That’s what I did. My own voice sounds like a twelve year old boy to me. But that’s a fleeting thought that almost never surfaces.

You confessed this about yourself, and it seemed so odd to me. But who am I to dismiss a feeling?

For someone who hates their own voice, you speak often enough. Not an extraneous amount—but you don’t try to avoid letting that sound leak out. Instead of bottling it up, you bravely raise your voice, and whisper sweet things, and shout when necessary.

I admire so many things about you.

I admired the way you could forgive my mistreatment of you. I admired your brave face when you were still my friend even after I chose someone else over you. I admired the fact that you still wanted me, even after all that time. Our history made it all the sadder when you walked away from me, motorcycle helmet in hand. That hurt.

I never thought your voice sounded weird—in fact, I loved everything about it. It sounded like summer nights hanging out the car window, and popsicles from juice concentrate, and stolen glances because of inappropriate crushes. It sounded like that one night, on the beanbag chair—a night I can never extract from my memory. It sounds like my phone dying because it’s so cold in the bed of your truck but the stars are worth the frozen toes. The stars were worth it, and so were you.

I really love the sound of your froggy voice. 

I Am a Statue

It would be a beautiful world if we could cut off the parts of us that we don’t like.

Take a knife to my breasts; whittle them down a size or two.

Smooth out the lumps and edges—

Sandpaper would do the trick nicely.

A small curved saw could shave off the extra bulk around my middle. 

A chip and a ding here and there would be fixed easily enough.

I could carve my form into the shape of my dreams.

Smooth and soft and tight at the seams.

                                                      

Nothing is too great a problem that my tools couldn’t fix it.

If I take too much off here

I will just take more off there.

Although there really isn’t such a thing as taking off too much.

I’m nothing more than

Curves and a

Waist and

Long pretty hair and

Soft dark eyes and

Olive skin and

Breasts and

Perfect teeth and

Round cheeks and

Lumps and

Bumps and

Bruises galore.

This shell I reside in is not simply a house. It is me. Not simply a house. My entirety.

It’ll be worth it in the end.

Machiavelli thinks so.

So why not take off more?

Chop a little here and then chop a little there.

I can feel a difference, and so can he, and so can their eyes.

These eyes that crawl up and down my skin, measuring tapes in hand, notes taken while frowns obscure their pleasant features.

I can handle scrutiny, if I take just a bit more off.

But now, I’ve reached an impasse.

Cut too deep, the bleeders will be exposed.

And then I’m even more gone than ever before.

The choice is hard, but so is the saw.

Still as an oak statue—I’m finally pretty.

The First Time

The first time I kissed him I could feel the future on my tongue. The salt in his mouth was how desire should taste. I knew that from that moment on we would be connected. Technically, this was not our first kiss. It was just the first kiss that felt like more than just a simple kiss. Our real first kiss had been on my doorstep after we packed all my things into boxes until five in the morning. He grasped my shoulders and quickly pressed his lips against mine, forgetting to pucker his own and leaving as quickly as he came. It was a perfect moment. Our height difference made it comical. I wouldn’t have minded someone else seeing us though.

                The first time we kissed, in a real way, we were sitting on my couch, discussing ‘us’. He asked me to date him and only him, and we ended the deal with a kiss. A hot, clumsy, inexperienced kiss. His limited capability in the area of kissing was charming, instead of a turn-off, which was unusual. My vast numbers of kissed men made his two kisses before me seem sad and sweet. My own personal motto seemed to always be that the only way to get over someone is to kiss any and every person who walks into my path. Unfortunately this only resulted in the worst of the worst experiences—ones that frequently ended with my stumbling walk into my apartment at five am.

                The first time he put his hand on my back and unsteadily brought our faces closer together, I learned how it felt to be cherished. Hands that held me like I was going to fall apart before his eyes—no one had ever held me that way. Generally, the fleeting moments in my love life were devoid of the love factor, and full of muffled breaths and sobs into my pillow. But his hands—they were so much bigger than mine that I looked like a child holding the hands of her father—held me like I was precious. For once, I felt beautiful, and important.

                The first time he held me in his arms as we fell asleep, I stopped having nightmares. Miraculously. For the first time in my twenty years of nightmares, I woke up when I wanted to, instead of at three am, or four am, or five, depending on when my nightmare occurred. He was my safe place.