Tomorrow Was Fun

As the debris settled and they could finally see each other without the burdensome lens of the world clouding their vision, the two stare in silence, waiting for the end to start all over again.

* * *

She reaches her hand out to Koizumi, knowing he won’t take it again. This was no longer just a natural disaster that forever changed their lives. It became so much more, so quickly.

* * *

They hear the screams before they feel the earth shiver, then quake beneath their feet. After a fraction of a second of utter stillness, they started moving. The things they thought were important were snatched up, the barest essentials of foods bagged before they leave what was once a shared home. The earth becomes fiercely disturbed and they’re sure that all of Japan is going to be thrust off the face of the planet.

* * *

High ground is not in site when the water comes into view. The buildings are already knocked from their perches above, only mere rubbish remaining in the aftermath. They shake as if caught in the viselike grip of God, tumbling from the top down as man’s work is felled by an entity bearing so much more power.

* * *

Seeing the wall of black liquid growing in the distance, Koizumi looks forward and knows the traffic heading toward safety would ensure their ensnarement in the living, watery Tartarus that only continues to grow in the rearview mirror. Words aren’t fast enough when death is on the cusp of one’s life, so he yanks on her arm, gesturing to her door before surging his own wide open. When he turns back, she is almost around the front of the car, her hands outstretched toward him in a silent, anguished call for comfort.

* * *

They do not hear the sound of the water as it comes crashing down upon the land. What they hear instead is the sound of the souls as they ascend, a collection of whispers that grows to a singular roar, deafening to the ears of the still-living.

* * *

As the water chases them, he takes hold of her hands and all but falls into the closest form of shelter, a worn building with what looks to be just enough height to save them. They climb the old staircase, others following closely behind, the black water continuing to rise with them. It is only when they reach the rooftop level, brake through the door and look down at the ravaged world below do they realize that escaping the onward rush of ocean is only the beginning of their worries.

* * *

The building begins to sag and drift like a willow in the breeze, leaning far to one side before breaking off completely and crumbling. The others who had clambered their way up start to scream. The wails add unnecessary noise in the background as the two cling to each other with unspoken sorrow bitter on their closed lips. The floor continues to crack, their bodies rocked with unceremonious force as they are tossed to the ground, their little sliver of shelter separating from the rest as they are carried off in the wake of the tsunami.

* * *

Watashi dachinouch, she says. Our home.

He looks at her, and beneath the agony, there is something else. Rather, it is the lack thereof that catches his attention. Because, beneath the loss, Koizumi knows there is an emptiness which has nothing to do with the havoc surrounding them. He looks at his fiancé and he knows, from that simple sentence, that they never had a home together.

Nani-koudesu ka? What home?

* * *

It was easy to remember the good times they had lost along with their shared living space. The day he had fallen so ill he could barely see the rose in her cheeks as she laid herself beside him, one of her hands wrapped around his as the other dipped into a bucket of ice water, plunging a washcloth up and down before wringing it out and placing it gently on his forehead. On. And off. Until he drifted to sleep. Or the day he bought her new speakers and she turned the dial to the maximum volume before playing her favorite, terrible American music. The way she had danced, jumping on their cool grey sofas as she sang about love made him feel like a teenager again. And then, when the landlord came banging on the door, multitudes of disgruntled neighbors lined up close behind him, Koizumi wondered at how young and uncaring she really could make him feel as they were harangued.

* * *

But, it seemed as if there was always more bad to outweigh the good in their relationship. The way she’d sit on the balcony, a cup of tea cradled in both hands, looking out over the landscape as her mind fled so far away. She was unhappy, and he knew it. Some nights she’d slip into bed, her body cold from the night air, but her hands, then pressed up against the wall of his back, he knew were warm from the unknown man that had held them close to his heart as they said their goodbyes in the shadow of the alley just beside the building. That same warmth which emanated from her palms into his back had made his brow sweat, angry and hurt and scared as he was. It was only that small, cold part of him which consistently raised questions and doubts of his own self worth that stopped him from deserting the bed and the fragile sense of comfort that came with it. With her. Because that small part of Koizumi felt it necessary to reiterate that maybe, she was the best he was ever going to get. Maybe, that half-hearted love was exactly the kind he deserved.

* * *

Home. It was a nice thought, to think he had created one with this woman who now looked at him like he was her world. Because, in that moment, he was. They drifted on their solitary piece of space, and that may as well be their universe. But, at some point, the water will drain away, and they will once again be a part of a greater world, one that involves more than just the two of them. In that reality, Koizumi knows that they can no longer pretend that their hopes of a future with each other are not a danger to the existence of their individual happiness. It was a nice dream, thinking that they could spend tomorrow together in that home, clueless of their vast differences, preparing for forever. It would never come to fruition.

* * *

Japan suffered a monumental blow today. However, the entire world would not come to an end. But theirs will.

* * *

Koizumi looks at that once-beloved hand and begins to cry.

 

 

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To the Broken You

What’s wrong?

What’s—

You ever look into broken glass and stare at your fragmented reflection. You can kind of see yourself as you were in the womb, before you were an embryo even, only a collection of particles that had not yet come together to form something. You can pick out the things you dislike most the easiest: little piggy nose, that scar just above your left eye, that fine moustache hair highlighted by your poorly-applied foundation. Ugly fuck lol. Imagining these faults removed, no longer parts to the picture. That’s a nice thought.

No matter how you fuss about the things you don’t want, though, the things you don’t understand, you will eventually find yourself facing a non-shitty, fully functional mirror and encounter yourself again. Whole. Whatever that means. You see the person you know staring back at you, the you you’ve known yourself to be before you became someone else, someone with splintered veins crawling up the expanse of their skin and eyes that see more of the empty spaces they wish were there than the truth. The person you think has finally come back to being you.

Wrong:

You’re you even when you’re broken.

External Lies

“Do you understand me?”

He asked.

 

The answer was always no.

She would never understand.

 

She slides the earrings into place,

Letting the gold hoops swing and glimmer

As she slips her socked feet into black heeled boots.

Her white jeans are strategically ripped

From the tops of her thighs,

To the base of her ankles.

Her black shirt is cropped,

Letting her bare stomach

Serve as a beacon of her defiance.

 

When she was twelve,

Her mother told her to wrap her hair in scarves,

Or else the others would hate her

For the simple fact that it was different.

 

Today, her hair is loose,

Curls of blonde, red, and black

Coiling in every direction

As they frame her made-up face.

 

When she was seventeen,

Her drunken uncle told her

That wearing make-up

Was sending the wrong idea to the men around her.

 

Today, her eyes are dramatized

With thick black liner and elongated eyelashes,

And her lips are stained a deep red

To amplify the pleased smile that

Curls up the ends of her mouth.

 

When she was eighteen,

She was told by her teacher

That, when she spoke with conviction,

It was equal to that of an assault to his person.

 

Today, she speaks her mind

With the same amount of conviction and certainty,

But three times the confidence.

She will gladly be the bitch

To finally say what she’s thought her entire life:

 

She’s sick of this shit.

 

She remembers how that attitude came to be,

The day she was given a talk.

He sat her down

And began to speak.

 

She watched as his lips moved,

But the stream of words seemed to float harmlessly to the ground

And disappear into piles of nothingness

Right before her very eyes.

 

She remembers staring at the floor in wonderment,

And marveling at the futility of words.

 

She took note of how unaffected she was,

And how much that affected her.

 

But, when she looked up

Into the eyes of her lecturer,

She saw her own reflection—

And she was proud.

 

“Do you understand me?”

He asked.

 

The answer was always no.

She would never understand.

 

How could she be beautiful, but not too beautiful.

Smart, but not too smart.

Bold, but not too bold.

 

 

She couldn’t.

And she would no longer try to be.

Beloved.

 

With twenty-six letters, hundreds of thousands of combinations can be made, but this one, by far is my favorite.

When spoken, it dances off the tongue like an eager lamb, more than ready to meet the altar, naïve in the ways of death.

But it is the feeling, not the sound of the word that draws my favor. It always begins as a dull ache that burns in the center of my chest, an ache that depends and simmers until there is a gaping hole where my heart should be.

Because it reminds me in a gentle way, that no one will ever call me by such a name. It is my favorite word because it has been, and will always be, lost to me. I am a piercing cactus in a sea of daisies. Who would be willing to hurt themselves to love another?

Beloved,

b e l o v e d ,

b e    l o v e d .

 

i can't.

Numb

I never had dreams before you.

And then I only dreamt when things went bad between us. Waking up without you, feeling very acutely that I was alone.

When I think of us, it doesn’t hurt like it’s supposed to. It just aches. Because I know that whatever we had, what once felt so special, now, means nothing.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of me. If you ever look at that bed we used to share and miss us in it. But then, I think I already know the answer, because I rarely do myself.

I just don’t understand. I thought you were my first love—in those moments, you used to say to me, no one could ever love you as much as I do, and I believed you.

So then, why, when I think of you, do I feel such apathy?

It doesn’t suit the love I thought we had.

Sensory Deprivation

just because his skin is warm honey

does not mean it will taste as sweet.

 

that was the mistake i made,

when my nose was too close to the

rose petals of his hair,

the smell, deep, pungent,

masking the scent of faded smiles

wafting from the onyx of his eyes.

 

our interactions,

hues of greys and reds,

blinded me to the silence,

that absence of sound that

sewed my ears shut

whenever i entered

the wordless realm

of his mouth.

 

what i could not hear,

i chose not to see,

and so i let myself float

in his chamber,

ears clogged,

eyes shut,

mouth sealed,

body vacant of

the color of my being.

a whitening,

which left me empty

and cold in a pit

of nothing,

waiting to stop waiting on

my own awakening,

ready to come back to myself.