the first thing was the mattress. it was filthy. it had no bed frame and no home except the dirty floor it found itself on, like some dead animal in a road drivers keep passing by. "road kill," we say, like it's funny. it was early in the afternoon and the sun was shining through the windows crudely, that day was playing show and tell and the subject was me in that crude sunlight on that dirty fucking mattress. but that day, for me the subject was you, this animal hungry you, fiercely forced, covering the tiny glowing beam of light i called my life. you were rough, everything was bearing down over and over between the sunlight. this heavy, heavy you, unyielding and sweaty and breathing hard with nothing at all in your eyes i could not hate and right there i became nothing. not even a tiny little voice or a whisper in the room even though i know i was crying out loud. the dirty mattress was halfway covered by an off-white sheet strangled tight around one corner. the rest twisted sloppy and confused into the middle of the thing. i knew how it felt. the sheet. there were times i swear i couldn't even tell the difference between that sheet and me.
time had its little ways with me and i suppose its a bit funny because you did too, in that god damn sunlight, so did you. besides all that, more than anything i think there was the spit. i was covered in your spit. you licked my whole face, my whole face, while you did it. while i was crying you were covering me with all those juices your body makes for your mouth. there wasn't a spot on my fifteen year old face that wasn't covered in your spit and the tears i was crying. both were so salty but i could still tell the difference between the two. the smells of you and your mouth and hands and all your spit were sharp and massive and everywhere. i wasn't given anything else to breathe in, i slipped out from time and circumstance from under the wetness and that heavy smell. i remember clearly that it wasn't the way a lovers spit should feel or smell at all but the opposite. it was hell, saying hi, dropping in. shady strangers, poison, hunger, it was me becoming a ghost because you had your hands around my neck. i thought of the the sheets and the way we are never supposed to stare directly into the sun, ever, and how small i was becoming under all your weight, your chest and tummy with the hard, hard hair, stubbled from shaving. it scraped and scraped roughly against all my soft, my ivory blood, over and over and i said no and i asked you to stop and you said nothing, you never said anything, you let the drops of sweat fall onto my skin, i believed in hell. the whole soft-pink honest life i kept in my head was never anything, never soft, not anymore. i went unheard, my words felt razor-sharp and sad coming up my throat, the "no's" that came out were for nobody, the air didn't even respond, it was busy closing in and getting hotter. maybe the sheets heard me but not you, you were busy taking something until you knew nothing would be left. roadkill. you were far away and i was bleeding but you wouldn't see me there, in you room, on your mattress until you were finished taking it all. in eighth grade my english teacher signed my book for graduation. she wrote, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" to this day i do not understand, or i do, but the answer changes. i want to ask her why she wrote it in my book, i want to ask her things, get to the bottom of the sound.