Acc I Dent


To run into traffic on a sunny day, and to stand motionless as the cars come careening close, as they slam on their brakes and collide to avoid you. To break open a bottle of ink and to splash it over everything you own, leaving nothing out. To break into the house across the street and to sleep there. To get a gun and point it at your mirror self. To blow a hole in your wall and to stand in the spray of water coming from the struck pipe. To immolate a papier-mâché version of yourself on the front lawn, and to shoot at the squirrels when they get too close. To close the door on each of your fingers till your nails fall off and the skin underneath is oily and purple. To punch the replaced mirror again and again, till nothing remains. To find an old newspaper clipping of what happened and to eat it, not even tearing it up first, just forcing it down. To crush the shards down into granulated glass and to put this glass into peanut butter for the squirrels. To break the fingers of the first person you meet on the road and to kiss them on the head as they wail and flail. To punch your stomach until it’s black and purple, the skin raised in knuckle prints like welts on the flesh. To tear your calendar on the anniversary of it and to shove it down the garbage disposal, mangling your hand when you reach down and into it. To refuse pain meds when the ambulance arrives and they take you to the hospital, you going in and out of consciousness as the sirens wail and wail and wail. To rip off the dressing that they put on the hand and to wave the appendage in front of the doctor’s face like a treat for a dog. To get on all fours and bark when they ask what’s wrong with you, and to laugh your spittle into the doctor’s face. To leave before they’ve signed you out and to catch a bus back home, bleeding on the seats. To rub the blood on your face and gibber incoherently when you start to catch stares. To relay the memories back to yourself, waving your hand back and forth as you do. To incorporate the memories of the trauma, to dislodge it from the dwelling place it’s hiding in. To look at old pictures of her, before it happened, and to cry quietly to yourself. To put the pictures in a safe place and to be sure not to drip any blood onto them. To wash your hand and to wash your hand and to scrub it as the pain radiates like balls of lightning. To swaddle the wound in a rag and to soak the rag in gasoline. To light up what you’ve made, this human torch, and to wail and flail to get it off. To let it burn, somehow not tearing it off, and to watch as the smoking rag falls off on its own, no blood leaking from the wound anymore. To allow yourself two crushed aspirin and to swallow it dry, the metal taste seeping into you, filling you up. To fish the photos back out and to hold them up to the flame. To singe off your eyebrows for even thinking of it. To grab a fire poker and to wind up on your foot. To stop at the last second, and the stinging smell of fear. To inhale this scent deeply. To wash your feet and anoint them in oils. To shower in hot water until your bones ache and to get out and allow yourself a robe. To put away your knives and other sharp implements. To shove a screwdriver in the garbage disposal. To take the pictures out again, and to really look at them. To see beyond the accident, just her. Just you, before all of this, before all of what you’ve done. To look down at what’s become of your hand, what’s become of you, and to weep.



Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s