The thief.

Race you to the car, in the dead of summer.
Forget the shoes, grab the flask.

Drive me away, far, far, away.
The old metal shakes, and my ass tingles.

Find the fault line, baby.
Let us go dance where the world can snap in half.
Let us get swallowed whole,
Let us swim in the magma.

Glutted yesterday.

I found myself in a cryptogenic location.

There wasn’t a soul around for miles. It was the kind of hypothetical place where trees fall and sounds are a mystery.

I spread a blanket on the grassy bank and remove my osculant clothing.

The cicada’s song was think and it wrapped like a cover filled with down, making  the impossible heat even more unlikely to carry.

The fresh water circulated and splashed nearby. I rolled my hips back and pushed my shoulder blades deep into the ground, imagining they were as sharp as the blade of a spade, that I was cultivating soil.

The humidity turned my heavy, mostly straight hair into thick curls around my face. There was something honest in the strangulating heat, something like heavy lace, creating a respected breath, gasp, proving your humanity, your life. All gentle violations and whispered apologies.

Hours prior to this remote sunbath I found myself crying in the condiment aisle of the loacal market. I don’t believe I could have found a more depressing location if I tried. Surrounded by petite jars and bottles of things that aren’t meant to be enjoyed alone. Things that are only complete when with something else. Things that by themselves have no meaning and are overlooked as they sit on the shelves of your refrigerator.

The rest of the shop was spent avoiding eye contact from my elders. As I placed the tomatoes, the olive oil, the oranges and grapes into the cart, tears that I couldn’t contain ran quickly, escaping down my cheek. As quick to flee the moment as I felt.

The ride home was a quiet and uncomfortable thing. The images, the terrorizing memories, were flashing so quickly that it seemed I was driving through inundatory rains. Absent mindedly, I turned on the windshield wipers.

When I finally managed to pull in the driveway, making sure to accelerate up the hill, I realized where all of this came from. How the disagreement spiraled into a harsh fight. I love segues, but it isn’t often that I recognize them within my own self.

So, I turned off the wipers.

Eventually I came to say, after the many falters, hesitations, and short sobs and gasps, “You know… It’s… It’s hard to accept something… Anything… Especially from a male… When… When as a child the male would punish you harshly for it… With his words… Hands…. Lashes… Be… Because you had basic human needs. The child… was always wrong… was always the one to blame. I think… I may project that… onto you. I… I haven’t seen that…. Until now.”

And I gave myself fifteen seconds to sob it out before cutting it off and throwing it into the stale garbage.

I put the groceries where they belonged and I drove off, because I wasn’t sure I could stay still, or stand the quiet of the safe home.

The rest…

History.

The silk will always stick.

Before the confessions, the derogatory statements, the overload of their alcohols, there was a moment that lead to it all.

After nearly ten years I bumped into folk that I’d long since thought about. Some of them fitting descriptions of Steinbeck novels, some of them impostors. But in any event, a good part of my childhood was spent around the same boys.

Before the make shift party started there was private gathering.

Four of us, surrounded by summer corn, drinking whisky on the tailgate of a primered ‘65 Chevy truck.

They told me about what has happened in their lives over the last decade and I quietly took long gulps from the cheap bottle hoping it would make this all a bit easier. They’d ask about me, but I didn’t feel much for talking, and every boy needs stroking on their ego so it was easy to spin it back around.

It was dusk and silent. The wind was strong, like it often is out there. The cicadas were loud, nearly screaming, begging for someone to pay attention to their song. I drifted in and out of daydreams, of idle thoughts, as they each spun their tales.

It was so easy to be there. So effortless. I saw why people go back and never leave. I saw why they stuck their dicks in what they did. I saw the lines on their hands, around their eyes, from too early work mornings and too late drinking nights.

I know there is a lot of root there, and a lot of what I hold true comes from all of its simplicity, but it doesn’t make it hard to push the hair behind my ear and not look back as I walk away.

I think the haze of the evening seeped in too deep and the humidity was hard to swallow.

And it finally came,
“Why did you leave?”
“Where did you go?”

I knew as soon as those questions were asked the floodgates would open and I would hear things that I never wanted to know. Nothing like an absence to make a person think that the opposing party cares to hear what is being said.

So I lied. I told each and every one of them what they wanted to hear and every word fell flat in the back of my head. I made promises, accepted dates, all because I was too tired to stand my ground. To tired to tell them what I was.

As soon as the bottle was dry and one threw it deep into the field, quick to show that he hadn’t lost that football arm that he carried in high school, I stood and said, “Come on boys, there’s a night to play in.”

The three climbed into the truck and I was the last to get in because I had to choose which lap was going to hold me.

It was a quiet ride back to where I was staying because I’m sure we all knew that what we said wasn’t what was going to be done.

So we showered off the sun and met up later in the night, only to have each and every sneaking suspicion confirmed.

And when I finally pushed the hair behind my ear, I didn’t look back.