A Repeated Song

When I was a little girl I thought for sure I would be married by now. I just laugh at the idea at this point. I refuse to be a crazy cat lady—the one with yellow, dingy wallpaper, peeling on the top corners of the living room, the little poppy print no longer popping. The light brown, shag carpeted floors dusted with old catnip and loose yarn, the contrasting colors tangled messily. No one wants a scarf made of those colors, let alone a sweater. Maybe if it was cold enough outside I would wear a sweater like that. The day that I do I will run into a handsome stranger. My papers will spill on the ground and I’ll stoop quickly to grab them, crumpling the sides, thrusting them into a disheveled pile. My cheeks are flaming red. This is how it will be.

This song is on repeat today—this week actually. I hate you, I love you. I hate that I want you. So many feelings and opinions are thrown at you like poison darts. I could dodge and duck around the speedy darts like Neo in the Matrix. Each of them barely missing my skin, my eyes, my heart.

I can also choose to drop to the floor, curled up like a hermit crap on the sandy beach. My shell walls are invisible, but they still feel as real as the heated tears streaming down my cheeks. I am claustrophobic inside that shell, the walls press tightly against my skin, scraping my arms and knee. The darts are hitting the shell, and I can feel the sudden slams of pressure against the walls.

I’ve wondered so many times if I can even push the shell off of my body and stand in the sun squinting. My legs might feel shaky, and I’ll probably want to curl up again, my thighs pressed to my chest and knees tucked under my chin. But I don’t do that. I am going to feel a warm breeze on my face, bushing my hair across my lips. I am going to turn my back to the darts and brush the tears from my face. I walk away and don’t look back.