the garden

Faded lilacs droop on the wallpaper, mottling as their dusty green depths are riddled with spores and other damp specimen. The heavy fabric crumbles beneath my fingers and the myriad parasites scatter.
The drab overall mauve is oppressive to me; it needs replacing, some parts are worn thin, almost entirely rubbed out, and others are too heavily saturated, each bloom a burden on its fragile stem.

We couldn’t afford a real garden then. How many hours I lost sitting on the carpet, tracing that maze, my eyes glazing into gelatinous masses, looking for a beginning at first, and later, an end. The colors were vivid then, not this shabby indistinct hue. And the blooms already so large, getting larger everyday, crowding and pushing around us at mealtimes, eavesdropping like giant dripping elephant ears.

A subtle dew seems to ooze, my hair drenches my neck and forehead and the room is too sticky, coated like a lozenge. I start to itch, getting restless thinking about my proximity to the mites crawling in the cloth. I can hear their soft claws furtively clicking against each other as they suck and dig into the flesh of the fabric. The mites with their incessant seeking, not knowing why or what they are looking for, mechanized by unseen primitive urges like we seem to be sometimes. I don’t know why I’m always looking for a beginning, something to be upset with. I don’t know why I need to keep going, to be committed, see it through, looking for an end. I don’t always know how to end. I don’t know why I don’t stop when I’m not angry anymore. I don’t know who is saying all of these vicious things to you because I love you. I don’t believe I could say such things. I saw a face reflected in a fraction of the blade before it began digging into the flesh of your fabric, it had a likeness but couldn’t have been me, I don’t recognize that woman, my hands are too clammy

but I’ve brought relief to your incessant seeking and the room has color again

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