things invisible

We're all falling apart. Little pieces of us. Hair breaking off and falling away. Flakes of dead skin joining the invisible bits of dust - everywhere. That time you cut yourself on broken glass or a shattered mirror. Tiny flecks of blood invisible and now dried. Pieces of us. Transparent and right under our noses and eyes.
And then there are the ghosts. Those big ugly ghosts of moments from the past. We call them memories. And we're making them and leaving them behind. All of the time. All of them invisible. Pieces of us.
The hospitals we were born in.
Your mother contracting and sweating and crying and smiling. Tears of pain turn to tears of joy, mixing with her perspiration of salt, water and waste products. The umbilical cord is cut and a memory is made.
The houses we grew up in.
Scampering down stairs of carpet and magic to a twinkling tree with gifts wrapped underneath. Tiny feet bouncing on cold linoleum in anticipation of birthday candles, Easter eggs or July's fireworks. A flash of a camera and a memory is made.
The car we kissed in.
A cheesy movie in a cold theater was the prologue. In your car in the parking lot with the heat on, the radio quiet and insignificant, and tears of sweat in your palms with nervous laughter and the dashboard glows dim. The two of you creep closer and eyes connect and slowly the lips and then a secret explosion (pure) and then "I have to be home by 10." And a memory is made.
The body you live in.
You're working 40 hours a week at a job you despise and your parents, your guardians are far away and there's an argument, a lack of trust and she leaves for the last time. Leaving you to pick up the pieces - alone. You cry like that baby from that memory. And another memory is made.
Those ghosts begin to grow and overlap like the lawn of a house abandoned. The ghosts get uglier and harrier, getting in your eyes. Those savage ghosts, they begin to confuse you, ripping the bulbs planted in the ceiling and shattering them against your bare white walls. Things break and things get dark and you cut yourself picking up the pieces - alone. Shards stained with blood and those tiny flecks of red, they're getting all over the place. And they're invisible. Invisible and mixing with the broken hair, the dust, the skin, the memories. Little pieces of us. And we're all falling apart.

mc