I erased an entire building and everyone died

I slammed my head into the floor today and understood why birds fly into buildings and why moths fly into light bulbs and why the day my sister and I had an argument I can't even remember anymore she threw the radio to the floor and then ran straight into a wall, and why sometimes people sit in a bathtub and beat their head against the porcelain and scream.

The bump on my head hurts every time I laugh or move an eyebrow, but I am reminded of that final moment of peace, when all of my synapses finally stopped screaming for the serotonin I guess they are so desperately lacking.

Sometimes I dream about pushing you out of a plane, sometimes I erase whole buildings and streets and civilizations are wiped out by a single rub from an eraser. Sometimes I scratch at my skin, picking off the bumps that were once a secret braille between you and me.

There are dead flies in the water glasses, and I probably bled on the mushrooms. The ants are finding their way up the staircase and the floor hasn't been cleaned in years. If anyone came into this house they might think that no one lives here anymore. And I don't think anyone that does wants to anyway.


The Sylvia Plath Effect

You know that they call this "The Sylvia Plath Effect".

I suppose laying in bed, thinking about elbows and our mothers or our terrifying, unknowable fathers, and being more creative than an eggshell makes us Lady Lazarus.

The answer might be different if it were London, or anywhere in California, or more likely Paris. Someplace with more trees and less rain. Award-winning, urbane, we contemplate candles and the pattern in the tablecloth, childhood homes and porcelain bathtubs. The answer will never be different.

They tell me this is the Sylvia Plath Effect. I'd leave a thousand pages unwritten if I never had to feel this again.