Eye of the Storm

The walls of my room are painted blue, a light sky color. My mother did that.

During the summer of 1995, I add a thick grey moon to the corner and paint a roll of ocean waves across the wall. It makes me feel less land bound and closer to the Pacific.

I take down my posters of Mike Patton and Kurt Cobain and instead sit in a blue and white bed surrounded by my hand made sea.

An island of my own creation.

But this afternoon I retreat to the floor of my closet and close the door. I withdrawal in my anger and frustration, a pack of razor blades, shiny and new. How they whisper in the spots of light that peek around wooden door.

The waves grow over my head. A hurricane circling. I can hear it shake the walls. My carpet is blue. My skin carries the white spots of cigarette burns across thighs. A lovely constellation.

I sit in the closet with the winds whipping across the ocean, so unlike the rough of the Pacific Ocean New Mexico dragged me from.

A bitten lip.
A pack of razor blades.
The rattle of the wind.
A face sticky with tears.
Body exhausted from the struggle.
I stop swimming.

When the razor slices my skin everything stops. There is no pain. The split so perfect. It doesn’t bled right away, the skin merely parts and with it comes stillness.

No longer does the wind whip my hair or the furniture hit my kneecaps. I am in the eye of the storm, suddenly very calm. A strange possession takes me from the cave and walks me slowly through the currents.

Screams and yells are unheard as I methodically doctor the fresh wound.

I am careful to avoid attention, to slip in medicine cabinet for bandage, and slip back to my island. I lay flat on blue bed, watching the hurricane turn back to poorly painted waves and remind myself I am in the desert.

I am land bound and dry.