old days clear

The news folk say it will snow tonight, so my father, this morning, suggested I fuel up. I didn't do what he said, but I heard him. Snow used to always mean bad things for her. Her parents never much liked to heat the house so she'd always be shivering under her blankets. Those were the good old days.

I say that a lot now. I'll prop my head up on a stilt-like arm and sigh and just say, "I miss the good old days."

I hope it doesn't snow for her well-being. I honestly mean that. It's what I always think about when it snows - "Boy, she must be feeling miserable with all this cold." I remember those days where she'd huddle up so close to me and comment on how warm I was. My hands would get cold though so I'd seek out what little shelter I could. I'd always put my hand on that part just above her hips, it was so warm from the mass of tissue and organs that it could fight away the worst frostbite. She'd scream and make the most angry face at me, that's a knee-jerk reaction. I'd apologize and not do it again despite the falling temperature of the tips of my fingers.

I think about her a lot. I've never wished for bad things to happen for her, not even on those lonely and miserable days weeks ago where I'd curl up in my room and sob, hoping that maybe I could do it loud enough that she'd hear it and come to my door and pat me on the back and say, "It'll be okay. I'm right here." Of course that never happened because if it did, I'd be writing in the white journal and not the black one. White is pale and pure and honest. "Nobody likes pale." I do. It's what I seek for more than anything. My skin does not become pale from being such a recluse - it becomes webbed with areas of light skin and red smears. My arms look like that. Piebald paleness.

I refuse to take off coats now. I've got this skinny red segment on my left wrist that puts so much shame on me that I'd rather sweat into heat stroke than reveal it. I must have done something awful because it never fades. It is my reminder of my fucking foolry, my mistakes, and like those I remember I made with her, it doesn't ever go away. Memories linger for all eternity, just like deep scars on a wrist - you can say that they've faded and that they're gone, but that's just some comfortable lie because you're simply not looking at it anymore. One glance and you flood back to memories of yourself on the ground with a glinting metal edge that you press hard on to the surface of your skin and pull up towards you. It stings like split flesh. That precious stream in your body starts to flow out and boils up like the scent of a dead body under the floorboards until it becomes stale and hardens. Then the pain sets in. I remember so fondly having that strip of crusted blood for days and days. The slightest touch on it would toss me into a fit of cringing, nearly to the point of making my eyes water. Memories are much the same - every time you try to examine your wounds, you split the sewn rupture again and scream as it tears further up your body. You stupid fuck.

I miss the days when I had clear wrists and a clear head. I miss the days when I had a set of frozen feet at the foot of my bed which I'd smother with the ones on my body that spit fire out. I miss the days of huge, blue comforters and a late night talk show. I miss watching it next to a sleeping girl and trying so hard to keep my laughs abated so as not to wake her. She'd wake up though and look over and I'd kiss her on the side of her soft, pale, pure, true face. She'd have me kiss her on the lips and pull me close and she'd go back to bed. "My baby. My darling."

I'm looking for a crutch now to rest my weary head on so I can sigh some moist breath.

"The good old days."