A marriage to myself in a wedding gown made of bloodless white veins,
The insides of an orange,
Laced about my skin.
And dark blue of my pen,
Pulling itself in concentric circles over the orange peels
And tattooed in their place.
Dark blue henna, by my pen,
In preparation for a marriage to myself
Tonight the sun set like a blood orange in the sky, bleeding red and rusty over the blue. I saw it out my kitchen window while I washed a head of lettuce, red leaf and dirty. This house, my life, is set on a hill, deep seated in a long row of other beach cottages, ornamented with sunburnt front porches and unkempt lawns. But we all overlook the water, a wide California sea whose waves hold together the seam of earth and sky, stitching the two into one at the horizon line and adorning their union with layers of sea shell pink clouds.
At first this place…was like he was, soft and fluttering in my mind and in my body, like a warm yellow washing over me, each time lasting long after he closed my door behind him. It was a crazy love, one that swallowed me whole. And I'll never know if I was in it alone, even if I asked him, I'll never know.
People wonder what I do here all alone, how I spend my time. It seems inconceivable to them that I could have things to do. Maybe I don't, maybe I'm still doing nothing…but it doesn't seem that way. I go for long walks and let myself sink into the sand. I spend silent evenings on the front porch, cool and blue in the twilight…just like I am.
And I look at myself differently, settled in my solitude. My body is beautiful for it, glowing in its owner's recognition and undivided attention. I still shave my legs, all the way to the dips before my hips, even though I know no man will feel their softness, even though I can't remember what it feels like to want one to.
I've been here for a year, the most of which has been spent coming back to life, feeding my brittle body with ocean water. The third night I spent in this house, I walked down to the water and waded in, sitting heavily at first, where the sea meets the land. I let it caress me then, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head and everywhere in between. It was a surrender, sexual and serious, but effortless, the way it must be for animals, the way it can't be with a man.
The difference between us is embodied by this place, this California so foreign to Manhattan, so spacious and so soft. The change is in my body, in the muscles in my back once as dry and knotted as the roots of New York's sidewalk planted trees.
We had met in the springtime, as stereotypical lovers do. I'd overlooked his failings accordingly and likewise, he had put me up on a pedestal. I fell hard into a love I thought could hold me, sinking down deep into hope like one falls into a hammock, fully and with an entirety of form. And then, the hammock gave way and I landed hard on my ass where I stayed a while, shocked and windblown, before picking up and moving forward.
So here I am now, standing over the kitchen sink with a head of lettuce, a setting sun and Joni Mitchell singing For Free somewhere in the background.
