I live in a ball of cotton and I hold my knees to my face and try to press my head into them, so the knees push through and there will be bones in my brain.
When they taught me to talk, nobody told me I would always have to do it. It’s not something you can unlearn, and once there is a voice, you can’t put it back. It leaks out my lips, but also through my eyes and cheeks. There is no hope for quiet. Not in this head. The words stay. I can’t think without them anymore. Bats of whispery grey. Between my ears. Bits of bites and flutters of wings. Makes me want to bury them. To quiet the wings.
When I was a baby, someone wrapped me tight and kissed my forehead. The cotton held my arms still and taught me how to stay. Someone rocked my body and I felt the repetition that taught me that it was all the same and that there would be nothing different. Me, a baby, a bundle of warm. Something moving me, vague and safe.
You think you can find me, talk to me, rescue me. But you can’t. I’m the mole man and I will only be found if I want to. I’m in my clothes, in a ball of cotton blankets, in my room, in my house, in my woods. There is nothing I will hear. There is nothing I need to hear.
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED