星空ARRANGE
Boxes

Boxes. It all comes down to boxes in the end. Whether it's bills in the mail, coffins in the ground, or cardboard to hold all your worldly possessions. At least, all the ones you want to keep.

One for him, one for me. One for him, oh, another for him.

It's a Kiss album. Definitely one of his. Seventies, big-hair, more makeup than a sorority house, play it so your friends thing you're cool, play it so your parents think you're worshipping Satan. Angry and hateful music. His type of kiss.

One for me. It's a Kiss album too, but not the same. Nineties Chinese girl group, full of energy and bounce, like liquid sugar pouring through the speakers. Play it so you can bounce around the room and pretend you're thirteen again. Spirited and vivacious music. My type of kiss.

I wanted romantic walks along the beach, he wanted sex in the hot tub, I wanted a candlelight dinner, he wanted sex on the dinner table... He usually won. Now, don't get me wrong, it was one euphoria after another, but it was shallow, and no basis for anything ongoing. Not for as long as it had been. Not for as long as it has been.

Like those little, shallow flowerpots you get - keep the plant from sending down too many roots, keep it from growing.

I need to spread my roots. I need to spread my limbs. I need to reach for the sun and the sky, and not just sit by the windowsill and look pretty, hoping for and yet dreading the showering of "affection."

What to do with the few things we got together? Things that are both his and mine? Perhaps it's symbolic, perhaps it shows the deeper underlying reasons, perhaps it shows why I'm tossing things in matching his and hers cardboard boxes. Very little we have is ours. It's either his, or mine. Mostly his.

Leave them, I guess. I want nothing to remind me of him. Not that it will work. I can try. But the little Chinese girls singing sugar and spirit will evoke the other Kiss. His Kiss. The Kiss I hate, as I hate no others. The violation of purity and innocence in a crescendo of force. The corruption of the spirit bearing a seductive mask. Beauty masking Ugly. His Kiss. Him.

Sarah Brightman, La Luna. Mine again. The moon - to me, a two-faced wanderer of the void, full of spirit and light, and yet with a dark face, a cursed face, a face that brings with it its own curse to share with me. Blessing and curse, curse and blessing. My moon.

His moon? A giant voyeuristic eye peering into bedrooms at night. But the eye doesn't leave bruises. Not bruises that can be seen. Not the blacks and blues of doorknobs and stairways, but bruises of the psyche, bruises of the mind.

One for him, one for me. One for him, another for him. Little boxes in bigger boxes by other boxes.

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