Cheekbones

I enjoy the peace that comes with forgetfulness, as with forgetting that I am most likely incapable of a purposeful life. Sometimes I question the importance of my actions. Sometimes I look back in the quiet moments life presents me with and think about how I have affected those around me. I imagine that there are some people scattered here and there that would speak softly of my presence in their paths, while others might turn red in the face at the mention of my name. Life has been an odd assortment of settings, cold pavement beneath a street light, hiding behind a car while a bear sorts through my luggage. Cold mountains with rifle in hand and my own body weight in armor and gear strapped to my frame, in some strange land where people killed each other over hills. Cold water in my lungs and too many drinks resting in my stomach, a hand dipped down into the river to grab me by the collar. I think the cold stands out more than the warmth that I’ve received. The cold has never really presented a price for itself before or after feeling it come over me. Cuddles will kill you if you’re already bankrupt in spirit. Kisses will dry your lips out when that person leaves and you’re too sick to your stomach to take care of your body. A hand on the nape of your neck can be poisonous if you place too much value on it or trust that it won’t move in time to someone else. Sometimes I look back on the things I’ve done out of heartbreak. I think of the substances that I welcomed in like a stray when it was raining cats and dogs. I think of my footprint on nature, how many drinks have I drank in my attempts to forget the way somebody felt. I remember the cold and the warmth but the warmth always feels like playing Russian roulette. Always waiting for the day that comes carrying the cartridge, anticipating the bang and the splatter of my soul against the nearest wall. Sometimes I think that you can grow warmth like people say. I go out and plant seeds and watch the dogs and cats fall from the sky. I fertilize with healthy communication, always fervent in my effort to express myself so that people have an understanding. I don’t think they wish to comprehend though. I think they like to come and take the flowers that bloom and the thyme that creeps and season all the things they stuff their faces with. I think people see me and the actions that I take as something other than what I’m wishing to convey, I think the sarcasm I use to keep people at arms length is taken for truth too often. My body is a vessel I have placed inside so many seas without a care for what the weather looked like. I think that my perpetual thirst for safety scares away the people that I love the most. They fill their own cups up and when I’ve finished mine I beg with hazel eyes for the one across from me. I drink these people down just like the other drinks I favor. I don’t give people ample opportunity to refresh or recuperate before deciding that they don’t possess the ability to love me properly. Sometimes I wonder if this empty stomach sees the damage that it does. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop to think. I think that I lack purpose. I think that perhaps soaking people up has only decorated me in ten too many colors and to others I must look like danger. I must be peculiar in the different colors I’ve become, like poison frogs that paint a picture of calamity. Yet there is never short supply for thirsty creatures like myself. I could drink for years, two at a time from people just as I did from bars and clubs and corner stores and never come up empty handed. I’ve loved a handful of them though, atleast I think I have. It’s hard to tell when I don’t really fathom what loving someone might look like. The version of love that I was taught is not something that I’d subject other people to. I’ve lusted over plenty though, I see the shapes and smell the scents and feel the flesh and on the inside there are sparks and little fires that crawl up to my ribs. But even that warmth comes with its cost and when you try to dance with everybody in a room, they start to speak to one another over time. Then the windows open and the cold comes in and suddenly the vibrant colors don’t mean shit and I am seen for what they think I am. It doesn’t matter when I try to tell them that I’m looking for a certain thing and if I don’t check with people I may never find it. I check their pockets and their purses and the closets that they hide behind their hearts. I check the cupboards underneath the sink and in the mirror with the medication. Sometimes I get a glimpse of what I look like to the outside world, ink and scars and garments, mud for eyes and cheekbones like my ancestors. The ones that saw the frogs and told each other of the death that comes when you’re not careful. I enjoy the peace that comes with either being loved or being left alone. I imagine that if I were to exist in two times at once, both the present and the past that I’d be driven mad. If my feet were back in the mountains, covered in a man’s blood and here, soaking in the sun, I’d find it hard to walk. I think my purpose is to make decisions and to learn how to make better ones or different ones or maybe just the same ones. Life seems to be about balance, the cold and the warmth and being alright with how you’re always somewhere in the middle. Most days I’m okay with that, when I can remember such simple things.