Chelsea Faye Leigh (just1rosepetal) wrote,
Chelsea Faye Leigh
just1rosepetal

Watching you, watch me. You look down and I look up as we spy inside the homes that are internalized. The homes we sleep safely in. Not covered by the dreams that are dealt to us in the dark depth of the night. The dreams that cloud our head and clothe our eyes, leaving us bare bodied and engaged in nudity. Our cheeks bloom roses, as we try and shy away from our vulnerability-- the exposed I that is only visible beneath the sheets that disguise our blemished flesh. White and draping like a morgue's blanket down our sides, we request not to call upon the other for our individual viewing.

In this kitchen we stand illuminated by the enlightenment of lived daylight. Lids are lifted and our pupils both hang like half moons still suspended by the dreams of a destiny we both grieve to be partners in.

Although your cigarette rests erectly on the base of your mouth, paralyzing words from their potential materialization, I hear you request for me. And against my cocktail glass, my champagne lips bid themselves to you. I feel my lashes swoon underneath the penetrating gaze of your reply and watch as your forehead tears with impatient expectation.

Fumbling fingers prod in your pocket as the young kids play pick up sticks on the kitchen table. I pretend to be too busy listening to the faucet drip to hear your hand seize jerking. What is it? Keys? You want to go. We should leave. Everyone will notice. You are right, no one is watching. No one is watching you watch me as I am watching you. No one is caring about our figures, whether they exist or cease to exist inside these walls that encumber us from awakening destiny's dream. From what I think I can see, we just exist. Here, now, existing separately together.


our crimson walls enclose me and my partners; tightened space (walls acting as barriers, barriers that fall between him and I and silence the potential for conversation), suffocating beneath the sheets that cascade around unclothed backs. Do not breathe your words--save your breath for kisses exchanged before bedtime, whenever we decide that to be. Four crimson walls enclose upon me in the danger of my dreams or rather, enclose upon my dangerous reality. A room the color of violets chosen at whim. Desires that pollinated as the paint was spread against the canvas of adolescence or after the paint had dried? I do not ask. Myself, the flower, developing between the walls. Budding layers of promise and potential. Bursting opiates dull the rationale of common sense, drowsiness inflicted upon my partners! Sleep slides down our lashes, blame it on the walls---dark, dark. I was sleeping then; know not what I did, remember who I think I was.

The carpet pulled across the floor, finally torn loose after the stains were too sick to show. Centipedes become my new neighbors; sneaking beneath the door when the lights hung low--too active to notice their entrance, they peer up at me as I am placed in lewd positions. Even they roll into a ball; hiding their face, a ploy to become an(other).

Sheets to match the walls; guests blend into the background I have designed for them and I. Embarrassed to say, that which split from their possession sat stale on the covers. Maybe it was my attempt to document the banality of romance; the give and take, the pervasion of I and the explosion of Him in its purest colors of darks and lights. Left after he had left, in sight for me to see (a sense of pride and personal satisfaction) and in sight for another him to see (empowerment and supremacy). My room, I call the shots: Come and Go.

I need change, so I spend the day painting the walls: girls holding flowers and a young boy floating beneath a cloud on a swing. The wall I wake to begins and ends with a quote, "Express yourself, Don't repress yourself." I wasn't even a fan of Madonna, but somehow I had the courage to risk having that confused. The door to enter had some warning that escapes me now, but its' backside was of a grave (a homage to Pretty Girls Make Graves--I was a fan of them). I was easily convinced that some boy friend should tag over it seeing how "dark" and "depressing" the message was. Was I depressed? Maybe a bit angry. Probably because of all that childhood acne. The bathroom dripped with neon paint and the light bulbs were soon replaced with black lights. I don't think I was on acid, but I am sure my grandparents did. I spent hours in the bathtub fictionalizing my current existence for a novel I was writing at the time. Everyone thought it was autobiographical; I just thought I existed somewhere in all I created, you just had to find me.

Did you know that if you submerge your whole body beneath a steady bath, as if you were drowning, you can hear your heartbeat inside of you? I have never felt so close to myself. The sins of the day swirled down the drain of the tub and I felt new every time I pulled the plug and my dripping feet hit the tiled floor. I was more mellow then (must have been all the fresh coats of paint or the dulling color sedating my senses).

Time took forever between those walls. I have never had so much time to kiss a boy between midnight and midmorning. My bunny ran loose, disappearing and then reappearing, suffering from starvation and then obesity; I couldn't keep track, but then again no one and nothing was really itself between those walls. My house keeper, Lilian, uncovered bottles of raunchy alcohol and came to me in a shy attempt to rid me of my plague. I was fearless though and only had one blackout thereafter (the story being entirely unnerving, though I am startled even today at my confidence). A friend and I made films where I would crawl on the floor and if anyone were to uncover the footage now they would be impressed by the humanity that had been documented. I took rolls of self portraits--eyes gazing into a lens that I interpreted to be [a] (my)self I was performing for, a self that I was hoping would eventually validate the exposed beauty.

Eventually I moved out and on. Painted a new room to match the other flower I found myself to be. And the room of violets decayed; hungry and thirsty for a morality only I offered up. Repositioning myself between the walls no longer feels acceptable. Maybe because in the midst of new drawers, a smaller bed and sewage green walls I can no longer locate the self that had been bursting for depth. Now the walls remind me of waste and if I were to stay long enough, I might just conform, so I close the door and go.
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