The next morning I had another text from Patrick.
—whats up whatcha doing?
—not much, headed back to springs, I wrote back.
—have u ever seen frankie threaten m? I added.
I folded my phone over and over in my lap, seated next to Jenny on the drive back from the rave. The sun painted the trailer park all of the beautiful pastel colors of dawn. At home, I drank water hungrily and searched my room for candy or some lollipop to satiate my grinding teeth. Goa seemed like an appropriate soundtrack for my comedown, so I turned on a playlist and lay in bed to think about Matt and our moment, the way his fingers feathered over my skin in the flashing lights, his mouth hot in my ear and the words repeating over and over again.
I want to get closer to you.
I want to get closer to you.
I want to get closer to you.
Frankie was nowhere to be found. We were alone, my hands on his arms. I was lost in the visceral snap of hot air and the electric lights.
I want to get closer to you.
I was still pretty high. The skinfeeling of Matt’s body burned against me, a shadow echo of the night. I felt like his skin was still in my hands and mouth. Each minute of the comedown, the feeling became sand against my palms, my body became beach water, wet, lapped against the shores of his disintegrated body. The vignettes moved through my body in lulled pulses until I could no longer take it. I chewed what remained of the lollipop, chewed through the stick, and dug into my closet looking for art supplies, throwing boxes of torn-up magazines, old glue sticks, and paints onto the floor.
I settled on a small piece of cottonwood I collected from a car accident I got into once. I hit this log in the road while driving to work, thinking that it would go right in between my tires. I misjudged. The wood swung right up into my wheel well and popped up the driver’s side of the car. The tire was blown. I was right near work, so I stopped on the side of the road and called Sam to tell him I’d be late.
In five minutes, he had pulled up in his ’99 Camaro. It was cold and overcast and we could see our breath. I did not ask who was watching the store while he was there, jacking the car up. He tried pulling the lug nuts off with his bare hands and scraped his knuckles on the asphalt.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. The smell of burning tires rushed by on the asphalt. The way cold air makes things louder, sound travels faster. The way cold air sharpens the way everything feels.
Sam, in his fleece jacket, lanyard hanging out of his pocket.
“Shut up,” he said.
Sam didn’t see it, but I walked into the road to retrieve the piece of wood. Some kind of talisman for a time when someone cared for me. The way love is a power. The way it’s uneven, it can be abused. Here was somebody doing something nice for me in a way that no one else had before. Me and that daddy-shaped hole. His breath hit the air, making little clouds as he breathed.
Eventually he got the tire off and the donut on the car. I made it to work and back home that night
The Goa was still playing in my room and the drugs were wearing off. If I rubbed my skin or myself the right way, I still got little electric tingles through my body. If I let myself focus on the part of Matt I loved the most, his pouty lips, the cupids bow, I could close my eyes and let it flower into his face, face soaked into soft neck and neck into body. Hands into hair. I touched my hips, felt my pelvic bones and the raised scar tissue of the tattoo on my belly and thigh. The new skin, I felt my hand touch it, and I grabbed, tried to grab the way Matt would, the way he would sink his nails in and almost rip.
I pulled out my phone and composed a text message in the hopes of securing his attention.
—i fucking want you
Looking at the words on the screen, they seemed too aggressive. I deleted them and tried for something else.
—what could you possibly be doing other than thinking about me
That still wasn’t right.
—are you thinking about me?
Too needy.
—what are you doing?
Which didn’t get to the heart of what I wanted, which was:
—can’t you just talk to me instead of be with her
I deleted that too, and then,
—does she let you choke her
I watched the blinker blinking text and then deleted it.
I put my phone away, lay down, and finally slept.
HURT ME IF YOU WANT TO HURT ME
HOW DOES AN OBSESSION grow? Slowly, like a mold? The spores settle unseen and then blooms form, devouring any open brainscape. The genitals become infected quickly. I’m not sure how this process works exactly. A feedback loop. Mycelium reaches out, ridge by beating ridge, a thought, a heart rate rises, a feeling like sex or love, then another thought. Each pulse a quickening like river beneath the soil.
I could feel Matt there in my head, a bloom connecting to other toxic parts of me. I woke up manic. The pulsing thoughts kept pushing my muscles toward action, so I had to keep moving my hands, grabbed the piece of cottonwood and broke it
