tigersaint

the forty-third night:

tonight i sat on my steps, letting the rain fall on me for what seemed like hours.

i turned my face up to the sky, hoping the rain would rinse me clean of all the sadness that i felt, all the sadness that washed over me today without warning and without mercy.

and sitting there in the rain, i was brought back to a day, many years ago, another time i stood out in the rain, feeling nothing but pain and sorrow.

my father was in the hospital, near death. no one knew if he would be alright, how long he would live.

i stood in the rain, looking at the grey sky meet the mountains, my arms crossed over my chest, barefeet, in the gutter in front of my house.

i cried long hard sobs, my whole body shaking until the sun went down.

i was terrified that he would die, yet at the same time i was horrified of the part of me that almost wanted him to. he was so cruel to me for so long, but i still loved him with my whole self, i worshipped him and his genius.

after hours, i was at a loss, in my knees in the gutter, crying unashamedly at the prospect of losing him and my shame and the part of me that wished it so.

that night i bound myself tight in his ties, wrapped tight around my throat and my waist, cutting into my ankles and my thighs.

i kept my arms free.

that night i found the pleasure of extension cords and used them like a devotee. i whipped them hard against my back, until i was exhausted, until my whole back felt like it was glowing with pain. i could feel the cold night breathe against the broken skin like the breath of a lover. i stuffed my sheets in my mouth to keep myself from crying out against the pain.

when i woke up in the morning i found blood on my sheets.

i kept them for a long time, i laid naked in them night after night to remind myself of my shame.

eventually my father came out of the hospital, disabled but alive. that night i stuffed my sheets into a garbage bag and waited until morning so i could personally hand the bag to the waste-man to take them away.

he was old and had tattoos that lined his forearms and wrists. he looked me up and down and winked at me in the 530am silver light, his eyebrows raised in question marks.

i still wonder sometimes if he grabbed the bag after i went inside, and if he did, what he thought of the sheets, marked with red-brown stripes.

tonight, when i came inside, i took off my shirt and examined my back.

it's amazing to me that you can't see the evidence of that night really anymore.

like my birthmarks, i would have to point the stripes out to you, shadows of my hurting, like internal injuries that only i know about.

now my hair is soaked through with rain and i don't feel clean.

but i wrote a letter to my father, and i kissed the seal on the envelope.