A BLOODY SOMETHING I’m always trying to reinvent myself as selfeffacing, the kind of girl everybody loves more. I grab my jaw in my hand and squeeze the crap out of it but it stops for no man. And what’s the use of trying when my face is worth a thousand words and everyone already knows me as second cousin to the devil? If I had to think of the thing on my body that bleeds the most, it would definitely be my vagina. That’s not true for everyone, even the women. For example: people who have granulomas bleed a lot from them. A granuloma is a lesion of epithelioid microphages. Ryan had one on his finger once and some days it was a steady stream of blood. He kept a bandage on it but it could bleed right through. Sometimes it would burst open while we were making love, pressure from the need causing bursting anywhere it could. I buy Batman band-aids, doing my best to make pain fun! I have dreams of celebrities and the skin divers—1,800 weak ideas: the big ones kicking the shit out of a fat kid, the little ones groaning, “Better him than me.” I’m chemistry drifting through sleep, suspended in aspic or twirling about or using a debit card. Sitting. Eating. Calling a friend. Passing the time.
One time Alex told me he had no feeling at all in his right leg. Go ahead, smack it, pinch it. Whatever you do, won’t hurt. Whatever I do? Anything. I smacked it. You won’t hurt me. Are you sure? Yes. Really? Yes. I looked into his eyes, deep into his small brown eyes. Was this a lie? I knew it wouldn’t prove anything to fuck up his leg, feeling or no feeling, but I had to test it, I had to know. Was he so desperate to be touched? Was this how far a person with a face full of landmines had to go for contact? Ready? Yes. I have Reynaud’s disease. It’s a blood vessel disorder. My fingers turn white, they tingle and prune up and go dead. It’s like I’m turning to rubbery stone, from the tips in.
There was a boy in my high school named Alex. He had terrible acne. How tough must it be to walk around with a face that repulses people! I would have hidden myself at all times, waiting it out, waiting until it cleared up to start my life, even if it never cleared up, but not Alex. He was pally with the tough guys and swung from the chandelier.
I used both hands to pinch the leg as hard as possible, forefinger on forefinger, thumb on thumb, and there was Alex: stoic as a cucumber while I viced the shit out of his inner thigh. I was impressed. If this was a lie, he was masterful at controlling his reactions to pain. Hot. If not, this poor guy was making it with a face full of landmines and a dead leg. Fearless! Hot.
You think this is it—all white lands and whiter thoughts—this is happiness. But beneath this is the past, crawling along at a snail’s pace, keeping time. And there are memories of it—home movies, real and imagined—in habits.
I have Mitral Valve Prolapse. It’s a heart condition. A bulging valve causes extra beats and panic attacks, fatigue and dizziness. It feels like something’s flopping around in there. It’s like having a fish for a heart. I’d like to be the spokesperson for it like Linda Carter is for Irritable