Sea salt and linen
I’m breathing in sea salt. My fingers are see through filled with light and my hair is a balloon for the wind. I don’t feel the wind on my waist playing with the corners of my shirt. I barely understand the reflections of lights as we fly through the tunnel. The darkness doesn’t feel real compared to the sun.
My first summer being me began this way. I didn’t feel the world, I was luminescent in my ignorance. I look back on the moments I captured from those fleeting seconds with wonder. How did I feel so alive? How could I feel everything so vividly? Was it even real?
Light prancing across the wall, laying on soft sheets with just the right amount of warmth and body. I felt his arm caress my hip, tensing and relaxing at the right points. Woods have the same pine smell. It isn’t as fresh as it was a few hours ago when we playfully teased each other across a table. We both knew we were going to fuck, why not just get on with it.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing…I don’t have to”
“You don’t have to think? Of course you do.”
“ I have a good body up against me and that’s all I need, thoughts are pointless.” His lips nearly spill the words. I feel him playing with the tips of my hair that cover his chest.
I should feel like a doll. I should feel used, scarred, abused. Why do we never feel used when we are using?
Romance. The taupe linen and freshly done face. The flowers and scent of sweetness. This exists in black and white films with main actresses dancing across the screen and gazing into the eyes of America’s war heros. It lay somewhere in the perfect 1.5 inch curls and the toxic hair spray soaked in her hair. Maybe even in the beauty mark dotted on her cheek. It isn’t that romance is a luxury I can’t afford, it is one I don’t desire. Romance is the idolization of the normal, the hiding of the truth behind a prism of lies ranging from massive to irrelevant.
The habit of smoking never appealed to me. Neither did tattoos or nose rings. They seemed extreme, irrational and blunt expressions of your mind. They lacked the crispness of chaste expulsions. I’d stare at the people casually lighting their death rolls with disgust. Now I find myself fighting the desire to stand in the tobacco aisle for longer than 10 minutes. I picture myself dying my hair, shaving it off, piercing every hole in my body and tattooing on the grotesque. I wonder what I’d be like if I were that person. If I took risks, I ran on impulse and love. We all have a story to share, but I always have planned mine.