BRAVING THE BONEYARD

They said you had a condition.

When I asked you about it you hissed in agreement. Slipping syllables through gaps in your teeth.

It took a long time for me to meet you. They locked you away. Boxed toys stale for a garage sale that never comes.

There were doctors and nurses and so many white clothes whispering about you. 

The sight of you was grounded. Like a diagram in a textbook.

You never asked me why I was there and so I let the reason slip from my mind. One day I found myself sitting with you and I realized I was no longer in a johnny gown. Back in my own clothes, that morning or some time before.

I crept into the room because I thought you were off-limits. I was wrong about that.

Boneyard they called you, but you had muscle. Not an inch of skin and much more crimson than white. I would learn that every time I saw you, the distribution of your flesh would change. More and less hanging on the bones of you. Blooming and wilting every time you woke up.

One day you had most of your penis. So we had the same thought.

You left pieces inside me. Wincing screams that dribbled out as whispers. Sibilant succor from throat to throat. Lighthouses orbiting one another, coastlines colliding all the same. The nurses saw bloodstains on my sheets so I had to give in to them. I had to wash you out.

Sibilant. You taught me that word. Sometimes I think you taught me to speak. The cracks in my leather. The suds in my soap.

Much later you told me you were so grateful you had the chance to feel inside some real holes because nothing would be worse than having any part of you inside me again. You made sure to enunciate, to push out your new sounds. Your M's and B's and V's and P's. 

The idea of curing you never came up until they had some vials and a schedule of surgeries. The hug gave my sweater round red stains and I left lilac fibers all over your ribcage. You didn't move your arms around me. I looked at your biceps, saw how strong they looked, realized you chose not to budge.

Weeks later I saw you whole, growing hair for the first time. Your lips fuller than I would have guessed, making it more obvious when you scowled at me. You took care of your gift, spent all that time working out. Gorgeous.

You kept coming by for months and months, letting your waves grow out. Sometimes you had beautiful people wrapped around you. After your little parades I would never see the same one twice.

Once, you were badlands. You were bog mummies. You possessed significant biodiversity. You were the perfect ink and your eyes got glassy when you would pretend not to crave the pain of touch. You wanted me to fingerpaint. I wanted to want something.

The mirror showed your teeth clenched, your jaw popped, your runny nose and eyes. You must have felt pain in places you never got to have before. A chunk of you slept in the sink, a square carved out of your thigh, your fingers pulling out a clot the size of a baseball.

The next morning you were fine. None of it ever stuck. You could only show glimpses of yourself as you were. Under the wrapper.

Before, I used to talk to you when you had a day with less jaw. Usually I thought I had nothing to say. But you would look at me and listen and the words would keep coming while you did. I stopped after you told me how much better you liked me when I was quiet. B b better. Q q quiet. Pursed into an open ring.

They found you in the street spread like butter. Eighteen wheels and asphalt. Dull knife and bread. Days missing beginnings, hoarding ends. The crowd watched as your liquids got solid, as mince became pieces. I nudged your coagulating face free from a loop of winding intestines and the toe of my boot took some with it. You looked stuck. It looked like it hurt.

by Viv Cartagena

Vivian Cartagena can be found @weirdal_andalus