Can human nature not survive / Without a listener?
Emily Dickenson
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THEY
HER
HIM
I
Prologue
My best friend was/is dead. I wanted new friends with a kind of maniacal zeal. I chose quantity
over intimacy; pale moon where once I had full sun. I invited myself to a party and was raped at
it. The next day I went to church. The day after that I went to school. And then I lived another
day, and another, and another, etc.
Parode
They said: You were so wild this weekend. You ran around saying [_________] was trying to rape
you. Then you disappeared for an hour and came back in only a bra. You were hilarious.
Their story: a girl; disappearing (whole), reappearing (in pieces.)
My story: the same. Only the lens is different.
Agôn
I can be hard to be kind to. My personality is an endurance test. I have trouble speaking at the
right volume. I am afraid of heights, and lows, and driving, and movie theaters. I ask too many
questions. I want to be taken seriously but I frame everything as a joke. I thought: if I become
small enough, I can slip into someone else’s skin, live someone else’s life. I lived a passive life
for many years. I went back to all the people who abused me because I liked knowing where I
was going, even if it was to a bad place.
They were my friends but I wasn’t theirs. I knew them through sports; boyfriends; church. I sat at
their lunch table and made them talk to me in public and showed up at their parties. I left
comments on their Myspaces about inside jokes that barely existed. I am certain they never liked
me; I never asked myself if I liked them. I liked this arrangement because I felt that I no longer
deserved real friendship, and they were not willing to give it.
You’re as different as night and day, adults used to say to us. The differences between us were
both physical and psychological: blonde/brunette, straight/curly, blue/brown, welcome/borne,
constant/mutable. She shone. She was all the light I ever had.
In high school, my favorite shirt was a pink Hollister henley. It was soft because I washed it in a
salt solution. It fit like a grave. I wore it at least once a week, which was a faux pas. That used to
matter to me. It meant you were too poor to afford new clothes. I was too poor to afford new
clothes; the pink shirt was my only name brand shirt. I carried myself differently in it, and it
carried me differently too. I have never forgotten it.
Parabasis
I have said before that I want to be small. Actually, I want to be huge. Undeniable. My pain is so
large I thought by now I would have smeared the stars. I wanted someone to look me in the eye
when I said I was hurt. I wanted to die a little more than I wanted to recover.
Now, more than ever and anything, I want the sun back in my sky. To be so close to the sun, for
so long, that my skin burns away completely. Solar soaked; nerveless; subsumed.
The blackberry patch we used to play in is gone. They bloomed around her birthday. Birthday
berries, we called them. And of course the thorns on the bushes. Of course the blood on our
hands. The pond we read by is dried up. The house she slept over in is demolished. It seems like
the world wants to erase every trace of her skin. But in every photo of us, my hand is on her
wrist. I never learned how to stop feeling for a pulse. I never learned how to let go.
Ode
I remember with clarity the day I stopped believing in god. I was sitting in my closet. I told him I
was giving myself over to him. I asked him to save me. Then:
[CROWD LAUGHS?]
(Once I knew someone who would have done anything to save me. She is not here and she was
not there, so I remain unsaved. She would not have made me endure what I couldn’t, because she
knew me better than god ever did. The memory of her voice is a balm against baptism. Her teeth
a rosary. Eyes softer than prayer.)
Episode
The best compliment is one that centers the person rather than something they have or do. Good
compliment: I love your outfit. Better compliment: Your taste is so unique! Which means you
were hilarious is high praise. It presents me as an innately funny person. Even in terror I amuse
others. It’s so nice to be noticed.
I burned my clothes from that night. In some dreams I am cold and need a shirt, but the only shirt
is the pink one. The dream demands that I die of frostbite no matter what. I still put the shirt on.
It still fits. I always looked so good in it.
In another dream I strangled my rapist. That is not what I really want to do, and the dream did
not bring me joy. Another time I dreamed I strangled my friends, and I woke up smiling. But that
is still not what I want to do, even if it brought me joy.
In other dreams all my clothes return to me, albeit briefly. In these dreams my friends undress
me. My arms are lifted so my shirt can be gently pulled over my head. My jeans are unbuttoned
carefully and pulled down. They are laughing, but not unkindly. Their hands are so sure. If only I
could lift my head and help them. It’s so nice to have friends.
Exode
I am no longer angry at the man who raped me. I am no longer angry at the people who did
nothing. But I can’t help wondering what would have happened if I had been given a nod a smile
a blanket a warm touch a message a friend. Feast after fast. I had to learn to give it to myself
instead. Violence made me kinder, but it didn’t ask for my permission.
In the dream where I do what I want, the gravel he dragged me through turns into daisies. The
mattress turns into blackberries. I find a wrist to hold onto. I find a heart to lay down in. The pink
shirt is just a shirt. I wear it or I don’t. I turn 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31. I move 500
miles away.I have bad days. I have better days. I have a son. I have a therapist. I scream and
scream and scream and scream and scream and then I say I’m okay now. I take my son to her
grave and he says hello! like he knows her, like she hears it. I hold peace like a hostage. I find
the words for what I am. I find joy in it.
—Amelia K (Wrongdoing Magazine)