A Beam

I’ve been chillen, having a nervous breakdown. Can’t seem to find the stick behind me. All it is is a should, isn’t that what they say? A tumult of noises in the head, strikes of words and phrases to live a life by, get beat by. I begin the day with my head in my hands, my feet on the burlap rug underneath my bed. It is not comfortable, never was. Why put discomfort in the bedroom? For irony, I guess. Or for aesthetics. I begin with my head in my hands and my elbows on my thighs and a long, deep sigh. All it is is a should. All everything is is a should. 

At the end of the day, I was rooting for fake––watching reality tv on a laptop with seasoned pretzels in my mouth. “Representation” justifies my habit. A house full of bisexuals looking for love sharing one large bed and a high budget for alcohol. Clear plastic cups filled with gold liquid hover around their glittered lips. Half of the spoken content is slurred. How embarrassing, I think, to have to look back and watch yourself flirt drunkenly with fifteen other people just to trip over the grass.

How much of this is scripted? Why do they call it reality tv if it’s all a production anyway? But if they’re all that drunk the whole time then they probably won’t remember any lines the producers give them, so maybe it’s more real than I think. They repeat love phrases to each other like popping cheap supplements each morning. Fake and sugary, full of tears. In one scene there was an argument between two lovers. The production crew poured fake rain on the two of them. You could see where the rectangular sheet of water stopped in the corner of the screen into dark stillness. Perfect.

I’ve been chillen, eating sometimes, drinking less, smoking less. Not by choice, but a healthy habit is a healthy habit, regardless of how you got there. I’ve been going on more walks I guess. I forget I have a bike. I forget I have a body. 

I’m not about this being, this constant anticipation. I’ve been making friends, sort of. Got this one friend who wants to be a lover. Wants to make a relationship that is also a house, but I am not handy like that. Ask anyone I’ve tried to build with, they’ll tell you my foundation classically sucks. 

But here I am at your house anyway, letting you give me a massage anyway, offering to model for your upcoming cardiac exam anyway, shifting my left boob so you can feel my ribs anyway, leaning into your stethoscope anyway. This I’ve done for you, or me, and tonight it’s the how between us. You ask me to stay and I say I’ll think about it.

At the beginning of the episode, the house is all fighting with each other. Someone chose the wrong lover, lost the whole group 250,000 dollars. When there’s money on the line, people get nosy. Remy breaks up a makeout session between Kai and Jenna, says their shenanigans will make them all lose. I only need to watch one episode, told myself I would, but here we are, two episodes deep and counting. The sure couples––self-righteous in their strategy, above the drama––sit on the couch in smug. The house drinks. The house sloshes words and money and lips and this is how we find love: in a mansion in Kona playing spin the bottle because we can’t leave the house unless the producers tell us to. 

At the end of the day, I get in my bed with a book and the glow of pink twinkle lights above me. I’ve left my laptop and the lovers in the other room, but I’m thinking about them. The lamp on my bedside table casts doubt onto the pages in front of me. Fault forms around a beam. It’s all a should anyway. Predictive text wanted me to say “it’s all a shoulder to cry on,” I guess that’s what the internet thinks I need. You once told me that you went to see a doctor whose diagnosis was that you needed more hugs and snacks. Can you write a prescription for that? I told you I would give you hugs anytime, but when I do, you feel smaller, like there’s too much space between us. 

At the end of the day, the empty side of the bed used to haunt me but now I can’t imagine someone in it. Can I imagine you? I root for fake but you are real. You’re so authentic it’s intimidating. You’re the burlap rug, you don’t deny what you are. It’s my own fault for putting you in the bedroom with me, to lay my bare feet, rest my thighs, elbows, hands, face, boob, heartbeat, stillness onto. It’s not you, I’m just thinking about you. You’re not aesthetics but I’m still looking for the right placement. Fault forms around a beam and I am searching for corners of transparency. I shut off the light, glitter forms around my lips.