The Long Sleeves We Wear in the Afternoon
Artist — Lucy Blue Delicate
Yesterday, I pressed my thumbnail into the skin of my wrist just to see how long the crescent mark would stay red. It takes surprisingly little pressure to leave a lasting mark. Walking back from the grocery store, I carried a heavy plastic bag by the thin handles, letting the plastic stretch and dig into my palms until my fingers went numb. Someone brushed past my shoulder at the crosswalk, and instead of saying anything, I just tightened my grip, locking my jaw. I spend a considerable amount of energy arranging my face into something rigid, hoping the people passing by mistake me for something solid—something that wouldn't easily crack if dropped on the pavement.
When the neighbor upstairs drops something heavy or raises their voice on a phone call, my shoulders involuntarily pull up toward my ears. It’s a sudden shrinking, a physical folding inward to the size of a five-year-old hiding behind a doorframe. I open a cheap canned beer at three in the afternoon, sitting bare-legged on the linoleum floor, picking at the aluminum tab. I tell myself I am just taking a break, just catching my breath, but my arms are crossed tightly over my chest. Even alone in this room, I wear long sleeves, carefully pulling the fabric down over my knuckles as if making sure no one can see the soft, uncalloused skin underneath.
We construct these elaborate, windowless facades right in the middle of our living spaces, stacking defensive words and indifferent nods like bricks. I nod confidently when asked for directions I don't know, and I smile when someone points out a flaw in my work, projecting the image of a person who has it all figured out. But behind that carefully plastered drywall, the floorboards are rotting and the roof is caved in. I keep you standing out on the porch because if I let you inside, you would see the mess I haven't cleaned up, the piles of unopened mail and the apologies I never had the courage to send. I act like the architect of a grand fortress, but I am just standing in the rubble, hoping you don't look too closely at the cracks.
The afternoon sun starts to shift, stretching the shadows of the window frames across the faded wallpaper. I press my back against the wall, feeling the cold seep through my shirt. I want to believe that one day I will step outside without scanning the street for exits, without bracing my stomach for a sudden loud noise. But for now, I just sit here, watching the daylight fade into a dull gray, carefully picking a stray thread from the hem of my sleeve. I roll the cotton thread between my thumb and index finger, feeling the slight tension, knowing exactly how little force it would take for it to snap.
Sweeping the Floor in the Dark
I finally stood up from the linoleum, my knees making a faint popping sound in the quiet room. I walked over to the sink, rinsing out the empty beer can and setting it gently in the recycling bin so it wouldn't make a loud clatter. The tension from the earlier argument still hung in the air, heavy and unresolved, but I didn't reach for my phone to explain myself or offer a defense. Instead, I grabbed the broom from the corner and started sweeping the loose hair and debris into a small pile near the entryway, letting the repetitive, scraping motion steady my breathing as the streetlights slowly flickered on outside the window.
Notes Left on the Kitchen Counter
"I draw a circle in the dirt and call it a border, knowing full well I’m the one who keeps crossing it just to see if I’ll still bleed."
"I try to stand still enough to be ancient and unmoving, but the wind keeps reminding me that I am made of things that can be carried away."
"I watch the water rise and wonder if staying afloat is a skill I’ve actually learned, or if I’m just getting better at holding my breath."
"It’s exhausting to be a puzzle that no one asked to solve, so I leave the pieces scattered and hope you’ll mistake the mess for art."
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