She's a Little Blue But So Are You

   Whenever the night closes around me like a dome, I am scared. The walls are so close that I feel the cold glass pressing against the tips of my fingers when I reach out. I see the smokey clouds twist around the twinkling stars and pockets of darker darkness all around me. Sometimes, it makes the back of my spine sound as though it is being beaten by a xylophone mallet. I feel that cold sometimes. I used to think nightfall was my friend. I used to think he'd let me hide in his pockets.

   But there are days when the sun breaks out around her fellow stars and dissolves all that inky infinity in the sky (for the time being, at least). Her rays reach out to me; they are warm. Always warm. I wish I could feel them all the time. Even when they touch me, sometimes the night still holds his grip tight, coating my skin like sludge from an oil spill.
I feel disgusting, but I wake up knowing that the sun will sleep with me when nightfall wakes me up in the morning when it is time for her to spill through the cracks between my curtains. She'll push me off my bed when I start believing I'm too sunken into it to climb out. She gets me showered and dressed and makes sure I'm wearing enough of her kisses to keep warm when the dark tries to freeze me over. 

   But sometimes, I don't even let her hold my hand. Sometimes, even her touch doesn't soothe me, and next thing, I am exploding like a volcano and I'm so hot that I burn even her.
She is the sun. She doesn't get burned. But I feel her recoil. I feel her recoil and it makes me hate myself, but she always comes back, brighter for me every morning. And that's how I know she loves me— because she allows me to feel the pain and the pleasure. She allows me to return her satin touch, and sometimes I can't even believe she has a human form. She is too sacred.
But still, we are perfect.

Everything is blue when she looks into the mirror, even her smile.
Under fluorescence she looks bluer, but that's okay. I see her pulling out her classic red lipstick, and she painting on a grin for everyone to remember tonight.
She's like a walking hologram, flickering in and out like she's a part of constant bad service. I see her faltering. I see her and no one else does.
I'm learning she's a phantom. I'm learning that everything's blue when she comes around because she can't help it. She hides her face in her hair to deny it. She makes half-hearted jokes and sometimes they're even whole-hearted. That's when it's tricky, but still, I know.
Believe me, she's still beautiful when she's blue. Sometimes, I see her flicker in reds, pinks, and yellows. I like to watch her drift in and out because it reminds me she's still here. Somehow. Anchored by what, I don't know, but she's still here. I know it when I see life flare into her cheeks. I know it when the sunset is beautiful after a storm and she is smiling like she's never seen one like it before. I know it when she's dancing because she never dances. I know it when she tells me it's going to be okay, even as she turns bluer.

Photos by Natalie Ondrik & Text by Gwen Peralta

1 comment

  1. This is so wonderful! I'm really digging the whole vibe of the entire piece.