Overwrite my mind [You know nothing of Hiroshima]

by Charlotte E. Wilde

Tu me tues.
Tu me fais du bien.
-Hiroshima mon amour

The trudging of my thoughts keeps me up until I Nyquil them down because being sick legitimizes pillow-talk lies and goddamnit if I haven’t been saving you for a rainy day. My headboard is a hostage cell, tiny tickmarks remember each night spent shaking memories out of my ear like pool-water headaches.

It had, of course, occurred to me that maybe this floor and this room would always remind me of midnight imaginations run to ground, but in the end I decided it was easier to blame it all on December.

Two days in and a three hour drive from anything resembling civilization– if you’d think that would account for a little peace of mind you’d be wrong.  I’d quickly figured out that unlike everything else around here, memories don’t stop for snow-days.

Let me explain…no, it’s too long. Let me sum up. The math of it is simple: I hate interims– it’s too hard to run from things when time slows down. 48 hours and counting, a so-called vacation. 2880 minutes hitting the bottom of my stomach like pennies in an empty wishing-well. 172,800 seconds, strung along like Christmas lights–no use in neighbors trying to out-do each other, we’re all just spectacles of wasted energy, little orbs of dissipating heat.  Each second splits like an atom and I consider that my isotope must still contain particles of us– a love at critical mass, fantasy fission failure.

Or maybe my memory picks and chooses what it wants to remember. I heard once that the average human heart beats 100,000 times per day…but anxiety’s an overachiever. My EKG speaks in morse code:  You can’t go back, it says, when we both know hard habits die old.

I’d closed the curtains on January, but it’s still out there, looming like a bible belt horizon, greenish gold and slippery around the edges. Sure as quicksand, this is no time for stalling, I need to be new. Bleach my mind; eternal sunshine; spotless hatred; Given enough time I can turn anyone’s touch inside out. Given enough heartbeats I can short circuit a feeling, activate radioactive decay process.

And sure enough, like a quarter in a gum-ball machine, the thought of losing you, of watching the skin slough off the bones of our memories, bought me a handful of sleep.

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