Art Room

             I was alone the first time we met.

            The art room had been filled with the chaotic chattering of a variety of people—some colorful, others blending into the pasty walls behind them as though mimicking the statues.

            Who were you? I didn’t know. One of the colorful ones, with radical eyebrows and dressed to kill. We were alone in the room with the noises. A connection.

            You: What’s your name?

            Me: Jazz.

            You: Oh.

            We met three times before I remembered your name. Later we would ponder the irony of having begun in an art room and ending like a paint splatter.

            Our Geometry was first period. You had noticed me there but to say it vice-versa would be a lie. You made sure to bring to my attention that our class was one and the same, and we talked. There were no sparks or fireworks or personifications of premature ventricular contractions. But there was curiosity.

            Then one chilly night where I hadn’t finished my math homework yet because I had been talking to you too often in first period to pay attention to the lessons, you texted me. I had a moment of frisson in my chest and in my pants and had to step outside to keep my excitement from my family. Then, suddenly, we were confessing feelings of our unrequited love and forgot just for a moment that your charms had not slipped the notice of many before me and you were already taken by that pitiful drunk who dressed in all black and smelled like sex and drugs.

            We cheated. We hid. We kept us from the world beyond our consciousness. Walls could keep secrets. Bed sheets could keep secrets. You flicked out your tongue and tasted the salt in my wounds. You remained hesitant but I was always persistent. And you were always yearning.

            You showed me the train tracks close to your house where you put pennies and nickels to be flattened and you gave me a few. You told me about the homeless men you’ve met, and how your boyfriend drunk-called you at four am to complain about his shitty life and throw up into the phone speaker for an hour and a half. You told me about the guy who broke up with you because he moved to Washington whom you still desperately loved and couldn’t do anything about. You told me about the time someone laced your drink and took your virginity and said it never affected you being raped, not one bit. Our arms brushed.

            You used to say things like I want to go to art school and be somebody and I would tell you to fuck off because I am nothing and never can be and you’d say something fucking stupid like you’re more than me and I would hate you in that moment but could only bring myself to correct your grammatical error.

            Then there was a sweaty night in June after a day of pleasant walks and a heavy session of weed and making out. My shoulder was sore with the weight of your head which felt twice as soft as usual, and we lay in a pleasant haze of momentary forever and you said “I popped your pot cherry,” which made me feel dirty but I didn’t say so. Skin tingled and I wanted your touch, but I wouldn’t let you when you tried at first. Softness turned into pain when our limbs tangled together and it hurt. My chest ached with the melancholy sense of emotional climax and I knew our Everest had been summited but ignorance is bliss and I kicked and screamed to keep us in rapture. I let you press me harder and touch me greedy and then it felt wonderful. I loved you.

            You had grown tired of kissing behind closed doors and holding hands under our purses until they were sweaty.

            Weeks later on a Sunday you told me about the party you went to and the drugs you smoked/ chewed/drank/injected and the boy’s hips you had ground yours into and the doctor’s appointment you had coming up to make sure you weren’t dirty or preggo, though I would have felt the same either way. You were still, or newly, drunk and could barely answer to anyone the following day including the questions I texted, sitting right next to you, about what we would become. You tripped and it made me sick.

            I screamed at myself and I hated myself and hated myself but it could not bring you back. I threw up. I tried to kill myself and screamed at my heart to fucking stop already stop stop stop beating stop please stop help me god stop heart please please and held my arms to my ribcage to keep from bleeding out, and the burgundy stain on my bed wasn’t from juice like I told my mom but from the nail clippers when they had found a home in my subcutaneous. I screamed at you to get your fucking life together and stop drinking and stop taking E because that shit could be laced and it’s your own damn fault that we failed geometry last year and your hands are too shaky to create your starry artwork only you can do you fucking idiot and did you ever love me because I think you fucking did. Your head was asleep.

           Eight months passed and I grew numb in the spot where you used to be. You had switched to some fancy boarding school out East but I see you every day on my skin.

When we saw each other downtown on a day where you could watch the heat rise off the sidewalk, you were dressed lazy but clean. I could smell the scent of cheap drugstore brand shampoo and booze. You smiled.

           Me: Have a leash?

           You: His name is Cory.

           Me: Do you like him?

           You: I love him.

           Me: I thought you loved Washington boy.

           You: This is better.

           I held you closer and stroked your hair and told you I still love you and I know we were terrible but we’ve changed now please. You kissed my cheek and said baby, I love him, and we were poison.

           My tears evaporated before they hit the sidewalk. I said you smelled like Vodka and you grinned. It’s my new Jazz.

~~~

I had a hard time deciding whether to post this or not. I'm still not sure this should even be posted, because I showed it to a few friends before this and I don't think they liked it much. Maybe only I do. Either way, here it is. I kinda tried to write in stream-of-consciousness. I looked over it a few times for editing but outside opinions are nice as well. Thanks in advance (: