Like breaking 1000 glasses.
I look at myself, in the mirror. I notice the hills and troughs of my face, the curves of its womanly shape. My face is confident.
Eyes, my own, roam my face, my pale skin, dry skin, warm skin. My own eyes look back at me, challenging me, piercing blue- some green- asking questions I can’t hear, teaching me age-old games of loathing and love. I love it. My face- I do, it’s nice, but what’s behind it? It won’t tell me.
I look at my shape, in the mirror, and it does not respond. I pick up my fingers, one by one, off of the mirror, pulling myself away, and I call myself. I reach my fingers one by one into my open mouth, feeling my teeth and tapping out words in my cheeks, feeling out for feeling. But I go straight to voicemail. Quickly, I take a last note of my curves and the layers to my skin, staring hard; on top of one another, laced in and out of each other- impregnable. Softly, I feel my feet lift off of the floor, and I am thrown into a room- no windows, no wall. One phone. 3 calls.
For the first call, I just try dialling the number and waiting… and waiting…. and waiting… and I get a sharp hang up. I am an unknown caller, myself is scared of me- no- no- not scared- maybe- I think- I don’t know- not scared.
I need to try a different approach. How do you show someone that you just want to be heard? I think. I turn blue, and purple. I throw the phone. And I scream, my stomach knots up and I become the knives inside of me- sharp and scary- the phone lurches and hisses at me, and it does not want to respond, but at least I hear a noise. At least I know that someone is there.
Lifting the phone to my mouth for the last time, I kiss it. I hold the phone and I take it into my mind, and it becomes a heart. A heart in my mind. I tell it that i love it and i hold it and i care for it; i cry with it and we cry together i hold it tightly and rock it and the lines on my forehead rest on the curved body of the heart curved rivers on my hands and a sweet breeze of breath comes from the phone i love it, i love it for my whole entire god damn fucking entire life, with everything i have and it costs me nothing but i feel myself shrink with each minute and it combusts.
As if an art critic, I am confronted with all of it at once, blown away by the mistakes. It’s almost too much to take in. Maybe if you hadn’t used too so much red? More yellow perhaps… the colours don’t blend well. You seem outside of yourself.
I don’t like the shape, either. Maybe you should make it bigger. Although, it’s already bigger than it seems but just… not big enough. It’s too big and it should be smaller. But also, Emily, you haven’t done it right.
What do you mean, Emily, that I haven’t done it right? I am trying.
The phone pops up, out of thin air, from the floor, and starts at my feet, touching each corner of their skin. As if slowly filling me with conversations. It’s a start, it’s only my feet, but I am being filled.