Salene

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Sometimes I sit down in my room and force myself to cry.  I sit
alone on my matress and blink my eyes until they come, saline from 
within me.  I do this when I feel it is a time to cry.

I walked alone, through my apartment complex with a bag of dirty
laundry.  It was warm; I wore a thin shirt to keep cool.  Several
dirty uniforms were in a bag in my hand.  I walked with them,
humming a song Ikari-san once hummed.  I didn't know the words.

He hummed the song when I got my apartment.  He asked me if the 
building was too decrepit.  I told him, it is melancholy.  "I find 
it... comforting."  Ikari-san shrugged.  Then he adjusted his 
glasses. They glinted.

The rhythmic beat of a pile driver, several blocks, a perpetual 
comfort.  Pounding, again and again.  My heart beats in unison 
with the rhythm.  Blood surges as metal falls, as water from my 
shower head drips.  

Walking home from school, I passed a woman walking her dog.  The
dog was a Doberman.  I smiled at it.  The dog ignored me.  I
walked on, smiling in the autumn air.

I reached the laundry room with my bag of dirties.  A man stood
by one of the washers, smoking a cigar.  He said something nice
about me, so I smiled.

"It was the smile," he said later, "It was her fault for smiling
at me like that."  The trial was over quickly.  Ikari-san told me
his defense testimony was laughable.

I was walking to school yesterday.  A man was walking a dog.  A
cocker spaniel.  I didn't smile at it.  I only smile for Ikari-
san.

The man in the laundry room grabbed me.  He called me a slut.
Hurt me.

I stand by a grave that I don't know, of a person I never met, 
and cry.  I do not understand why I cry.  The tears come and I 
watch them fall into my hands.  My eye blinks.  I can see red.  
I hate the red.

A long time ago, I didn't feel like this.  Now I do.  I don't
understand why he hurt me, but I know the reason.  It was my
smile.  He said so.  So now I don't smile to others anymore, 
and I am never hurt.  I only smile for Ikari-san.

I walk alone through the city called Tokyo 3.  The lights of man 
play all around, an ephemeral fire fly's dance.  Like clockworks, 
the city drones on.  The dance of the gears.  The fire of the 
flys.  It moves, constantly and infinitely, all around.  Motion 
for motion's sake.  Entropy.  Chaos.  Fire.

Is that me I see, staring at me?  How can I look at myself?  How 
can I see the image of my own red eyes, looking back at me?  Where 
is the red fire reflecting from?  She looks into the fire, yet 
looks into me.  Does this mean that I am fire?  That I am red?

Sometimes I sit down in my room and force myself to bleed.  I
sit alone on my matress, with a small pocket knife, and cut my arm.
It only bleeds for a short time.  I do this when I feel it is a
time to bleed.

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Copyright 1998 to Charles Drake.