Little Matchstick Girl
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: The film belongs to Sofia Coppola. The title is from a story that is not mine.
Dedication: To Kara, because she is my Virgin Suicides muse. To Petal, because she puts up with me even when I'm more maudlin and melodramatic than dear Cecelia.
--
I used to strike matches against my wrists. They were always lying around the house. We used them every night to swath the candles of shrines and Christianity with light. I'd steal them when I felt like crying. Swallow my tears, bite my lips and squeeze my eyes shut. Press down hard against my skin. Hard enough to see if they'd light. Hard enough to see if they'd burn me. They never caught fire, and I never saw red streaks across my skin. Until the razor swiped my veins and bones with metal teeth. It was a different red. Not blistery and shiny. Just sharp, and deep.
The doctors wrapped tape and bandages around my wrists so I wouldn't pull open the stitches. I've still sliced through the sticky strips with scissors. I've frayed the gauze with my fingernails, like unknotting a spider web.
I can see my wrists again. The scabs lifted when I ripped the wrapping off. Like a present I couldn't wait to open on Christmas morning. Shiny and new. My own glistening blood. It pools where the skin used to be. I have broken all of my shackles. I will raise my arms and fly.
Does falling feel like flying?
I don't want my life to flash before my eyes. I want it all quick. Sharp like my razors. Not dull and sluggish and useless like the blades Mary uses to shave her legs.
I curl my toes around the window ledge. The blood begins to slide across my arms. The world greets me in a dizzying rush. The scattered leaves and dusty tress and cracked cement. The music wafting from the basement like incense. The laughter ringing. And soon there'll be silence.
I hold my breath. Like I used to when the match touched my skin. When the blade bit my skin. I step down from the ledge, and touch the world with my bare feet. My heart slips from its ascent and catches in my wrists. My pulse is pounding so hard the skin might break. I take up a match with shaking hands.
I strike the match against paper-thin skin. I strike the match against fatty tissue beyond my scars. I strike the match against the table whereon rests Holy Mary's shrine. It catches, brilliant blue. I return to the ledge, watching the match blacken. I toss it towards the earth, watching it die.
Does falling feel like flying?
I fall into the fire.
--
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart
Disclaimer: The film belongs to Sofia Coppola. The title is from a story that is not mine.
Dedication: To Kara, because she is my Virgin Suicides muse. To Petal, because she puts up with me even when I'm more maudlin and melodramatic than dear Cecelia.
--
I used to strike matches against my wrists. They were always lying around the house. We used them every night to swath the candles of shrines and Christianity with light. I'd steal them when I felt like crying. Swallow my tears, bite my lips and squeeze my eyes shut. Press down hard against my skin. Hard enough to see if they'd light. Hard enough to see if they'd burn me. They never caught fire, and I never saw red streaks across my skin. Until the razor swiped my veins and bones with metal teeth. It was a different red. Not blistery and shiny. Just sharp, and deep.
The doctors wrapped tape and bandages around my wrists so I wouldn't pull open the stitches. I've still sliced through the sticky strips with scissors. I've frayed the gauze with my fingernails, like unknotting a spider web.
I can see my wrists again. The scabs lifted when I ripped the wrapping off. Like a present I couldn't wait to open on Christmas morning. Shiny and new. My own glistening blood. It pools where the skin used to be. I have broken all of my shackles. I will raise my arms and fly.
Does falling feel like flying?
I don't want my life to flash before my eyes. I want it all quick. Sharp like my razors. Not dull and sluggish and useless like the blades Mary uses to shave her legs.
I curl my toes around the window ledge. The blood begins to slide across my arms. The world greets me in a dizzying rush. The scattered leaves and dusty tress and cracked cement. The music wafting from the basement like incense. The laughter ringing. And soon there'll be silence.
I hold my breath. Like I used to when the match touched my skin. When the blade bit my skin. I step down from the ledge, and touch the world with my bare feet. My heart slips from its ascent and catches in my wrists. My pulse is pounding so hard the skin might break. I take up a match with shaking hands.
I strike the match against paper-thin skin. I strike the match against fatty tissue beyond my scars. I strike the match against the table whereon rests Holy Mary's shrine. It catches, brilliant blue. I return to the ledge, watching the match blacken. I toss it towards the earth, watching it die.
Does falling feel like flying?
I fall into the fire.
--