MY BODY IS MY OWN CANVAS
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I
I'll tell you the story. The way it really is, rough as sandpaper. My whole life is a movie. A black and white movie. Not an old-time classic, just a black and white movie. Sometimes there's red. A shimmery pinkish red, like the color of my hair and sometimes my boots and on unexpected evenings, a violent sunset that gashes open the sky. This is mostly a silent film, a grey film. I skip along the sidewalk and walk in the gutters and suck on red lollipops and all the grey cars are parked at the curbs and the streets are utterly still and silent. I'm not a narcissist. And I'm not color-blind. For a long time I just didn't see things in color. My senses were bleached, my emotions atrophied. Maybe that's why I needed Jasper so bad. Why I sunk my teeth in so deep and refused to let go. Why his name didn't taste like metal in my mouth. The instant I saw his eyes, I saw dandelion seeds blowing in a blue wind. I'd never seen blue before, I'd never even felt it. And I wanted it, I wanted it. He worked at a tattoo parlor. He was 28. He had beautiful blue eyes and wavy black hair and an eyebrow ring and he was a real fucking prick when I first met him. Maybe he still works there. Maybe he's still a real fucking prick. Maybe his eyes are stone grey now. It doesn't matter, because I still would have found a way to meet him. * * *
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CARELLA KEIL
is a poet and digital artist who splits her time between the ethereal world of dreams, and Toronto, Canada, depending on the weather. Her work involves themes of mental health, nature and sexuality, often in a surrealist tone. Carella is the recipient of the Stanley Fefferman Prize in Creative Writing (2006) and 2nd place winner in the Open Minds Quarterly BrainStorm Poetry Contest (2017). Recently, she has been published in Margins Magazine, Wrongdoing Magazine, Shuf Poetry and Myth & Lore. Forthcoming publications include Paddler Press, Fragmented Voices, Querencia Press and Stripes Literary Magazine. |
I always get lost in the city, show up to class late or not at all. I always leave early, skipping down the formidable stone steps, laces untied, skirt flying and book-bag banging against my shoulder. It just feels like the time to leave, so I leave. I have a wanderlust for the city.
November is the best time to wander, the best time to skip class. No exams and the leaves whirl crisp and grey around your ankles. Sometimes I catch a silver leaf. Sometimes a silver leaf catches me by surprise, grabs my hand and drags me along the pavement. Come on. Hurry up. We're going Somewhere. And the skies, are so open in November, ribcages with no souls, I can look straight up and see heaven. I never saw any red leaves that fall. Maybe it was a sign. I would later see so much red.
II
I put my hand to the back of my head. Take it away. Sticky. Blood. Red. I lean against the wall, sink down a little lower. Rust-red bricks claw my white shirt up. The cold stone wall numbs the back of my bare legs. The wind pierces me. I lift up my skirt with one hand. Put my hand between my legs. Stare down the empty alleyway, watch dusk chase the charcoal sun. Pull my hand away. Red.
November is the best time to wander, the best time to skip class. No exams and the leaves whirl crisp and grey around your ankles. Sometimes I catch a silver leaf. Sometimes a silver leaf catches me by surprise, grabs my hand and drags me along the pavement. Come on. Hurry up. We're going Somewhere. And the skies, are so open in November, ribcages with no souls, I can look straight up and see heaven. I never saw any red leaves that fall. Maybe it was a sign. I would later see so much red.
II
I put my hand to the back of my head. Take it away. Sticky. Blood. Red. I lean against the wall, sink down a little lower. Rust-red bricks claw my white shirt up. The cold stone wall numbs the back of my bare legs. The wind pierces me. I lift up my skirt with one hand. Put my hand between my legs. Stare down the empty alleyway, watch dusk chase the charcoal sun. Pull my hand away. Red.
* * *
Can you look straight at the sun? Try. Feel it digging into the back of your eyes, feel it pushing into your sockets until everything is white.
This is what it feels like. When you're 14 and you're walking home from school in the early evening and a man follows you into an alleyway. Your mom always warned you about strange men and alleyways. Your mom always warned you about drugs and sex and black cats and broken ladders. But your mom's the one who went to a New Years' party when she was 19 and swallowed a bottle of pills and glass after glass of fierce red wine until she saw nothing but white for a month. So you don't put much stock in your mother's words.
He could be 19, 20. He could be your older brother. Maybe he's in college and maybe in a few years he'll ask you out for coffee or maybe a drink at a pub. Maybe his eyes are green as moss. Maybe he has a pet puppy. Maybe he sees your white stockings and tartan kilt and your gawky freckled face and he wants to turn you into a swan. Maybe he likes how you made a wreath of leaves and pinned them in your hair. Maybe he thinks you're a prostitute. Maybe he thinks you're a whore for love, touch, affection.
Maybe he's just fucking horny.
He breathes smoke into your mouth, you want to turn away and run but you're strangely mesmerized. He smiles. His lips are cracked. He pushes you up against the wall. Unzips his jeans. Pulls your legs apart, yanks them up around his hips. He bangs you up against the wall, bangs you again and again. Your head throbs. You want to remain sealed to this pain. You feel your backpack slip to the ground. For some reason, this slippage bothers you more than being raped in an alleyway only a few blocks from the nearest streetcar.
When he's done he whispers in your ear. He's still chewing on the same cigarette. You smell blood and metal. He tells you he's sorry. Sorry he took your cherry. He looks you up and down, winks at you. Chuckles.
If you were older and wittier, you'd tell him you'd wear a sign next time. If you were older and wiser, you'd call the cops, a school counselor, your mother. But you are a whore for love, and the only person you want to run to is Jasper, the artist at the tattoo parlor. Because you're so sick of seeing only red.
You sink into the brick wall with your hands up between your legs and stare deep at the sun until everything is bleached white and you can feel the burn in your retinas. The word Raw comes to mind. You see red gore everywhere. A ripped heart, a punctured lung, a cigarette smashed in the street with spatters of your blood on it. You turn your head to the side and vomit. For the first time you wonder, why did mom drink so hard and deep, and what was she trying to destroy inside.
This is what it feels like. When you're 14 and you're walking home from school in the early evening and a man follows you into an alleyway. Your mom always warned you about strange men and alleyways. Your mom always warned you about drugs and sex and black cats and broken ladders. But your mom's the one who went to a New Years' party when she was 19 and swallowed a bottle of pills and glass after glass of fierce red wine until she saw nothing but white for a month. So you don't put much stock in your mother's words.
He could be 19, 20. He could be your older brother. Maybe he's in college and maybe in a few years he'll ask you out for coffee or maybe a drink at a pub. Maybe his eyes are green as moss. Maybe he has a pet puppy. Maybe he sees your white stockings and tartan kilt and your gawky freckled face and he wants to turn you into a swan. Maybe he likes how you made a wreath of leaves and pinned them in your hair. Maybe he thinks you're a prostitute. Maybe he thinks you're a whore for love, touch, affection.
Maybe he's just fucking horny.
He breathes smoke into your mouth, you want to turn away and run but you're strangely mesmerized. He smiles. His lips are cracked. He pushes you up against the wall. Unzips his jeans. Pulls your legs apart, yanks them up around his hips. He bangs you up against the wall, bangs you again and again. Your head throbs. You want to remain sealed to this pain. You feel your backpack slip to the ground. For some reason, this slippage bothers you more than being raped in an alleyway only a few blocks from the nearest streetcar.
When he's done he whispers in your ear. He's still chewing on the same cigarette. You smell blood and metal. He tells you he's sorry. Sorry he took your cherry. He looks you up and down, winks at you. Chuckles.
If you were older and wittier, you'd tell him you'd wear a sign next time. If you were older and wiser, you'd call the cops, a school counselor, your mother. But you are a whore for love, and the only person you want to run to is Jasper, the artist at the tattoo parlor. Because you're so sick of seeing only red.
You sink into the brick wall with your hands up between your legs and stare deep at the sun until everything is bleached white and you can feel the burn in your retinas. The word Raw comes to mind. You see red gore everywhere. A ripped heart, a punctured lung, a cigarette smashed in the street with spatters of your blood on it. You turn your head to the side and vomit. For the first time you wonder, why did mom drink so hard and deep, and what was she trying to destroy inside.