I don’t know how I feel. I look at a deep purple bruise, a swirling galaxy on my inner knee. I think of you and wonder how nervous you must have been. I think of me and know how nervous I was at first. I think of ripping a screen of a window just so I could curl up in a blanket on a windowstill and smoke a cigarette somewhere between the middle of the night and a new day.
I think of your sisters and your mother. I don’t imagine your father, for some reason. I think of you as unsure and scared. I know nothing about you it’s not really fair for me to even create this persona for you.
I don’t think of you in a way that makes me blush or nervous or like I hold a little secret. I think of you in a way that makes me feel like there’s a void in me. I think of you in a way that makes me sad for you in way that does not invoke pity—it just makes me feel like you are so young even though you are older than me.
I wear less makeup these days. I want to cut my hair shorter and shorter until I feel like I can expose myself until I can’t hide behind anything. I don’t want to hide.
It is past three in the morning and I don’t feel anything for you but here I am writing and thinking about a bare room, a sink full of dishes, a bathroom without towels, and basketball shorts without pockets as a viable option on a sunny fall saturday.