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2002-10-21 || 4:04 p.m. || patron saint || she is checking her pulse constantly, casually lifting her fingers to the hollow between jawline and neck, counting off while watching the second hand. she tries to hide it from me, holding her hand there as if it is to punctuate speech, to make a point, but i can see her mouth moving. when her hands start shaking she tries to hide it by fidgeting. she pushes back her cuticles and scrutinizes her fingernails, checks her hair for split ends, pulls at the stray threads on her jeans. she stops for a second, pressing the palms of her hands against her sternum, and looks up at the ceiling. she is trying to hold in tears and the funny pain and how scared she is. we are in a motel room. i'm lying under covers. a movie is on cable and sitting there briefly, before i start crying because i don't know how to fix anything or what to say or if she wants me to touch her right then, briefly she appears to be some sort of angel, some religious figure made of wax and cheap gold paint that defies everything we understand as true by crying oily salty tears that signify something is very wrong. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |