the life and times of a malnourished houseplant

[excerpt from rough cut of: drawing pictures of birds]

I smoke my last cigarette for breakfast then cut the palm of my hand with my new chopping knife. The blade leaves a thick trail of blood that runs down my wrist, cold and slow. At first it doesn’t look real. It doesn’t look like it could have come from my body, so I squeeze my hand tightly until pain shoots up my arm.

That’s better.

It’s not entirely clear in my memory when, exactly, I started this. All I remember is the first time I slammed my hand in my dresser drawer. I was twelve and the pain was shocking and I felt it pulse instantly through my entire body. I had never felt so alive. I was almost heartbroken when the pain subsided. So I went seeking it with knives and razor blades like an archeologist digging for the body of Christ.

I put the knife back in the drawer and wrap a dishtowel around the hand. With over an hour to kill before class starts, I take my new favorite seat in front of the window and stare across the yard.

The man with the black hair locks his front door. It’s a different coat this time he’s wearing. A brown one. Motorcycle style. His breath makes steam clouds in front of him as he buttons his coat and checks his pockets. A knit cap is discovered. The man pulls it down firm over his ears, stopping only when he catches me watching him. Now I’m the crazy girl that lives next door. The one that spies on people out her kitchen window and keeps a bloody chopping knife on hand in case an unexpected guest should drop by. It’s day six and I’m off to a fabulous start.