An artist is always in pain.

Mattress, dull butter knife blade.

God, 

the things that happened to me

shouldn’t happen to anyone—

The inconvenience 

of adoration—

Do I want to lay forever?

Sleep forever,

watch time condense into a single point,

stutter like I used to, 

do my best to scrub myself clean

                          in every place my old self touched

my newly reborn body. 

                           I want to fold my skin

like a paper napkin. Crumple myself

around a single point, a spill of color. Bleed.

I am an artist; therefore I am in pain.

I am in pain; therefore I am an artist.

January 1.  

         The woman in here with me is putting on lipstick. I remember when she did that, knowing I was watching her from the bed, still half asleep, how she’d mouth her name exaggeratedly in the mirror when she finished with the coat, Ra-mo-na, usually red lips, but sometimes plum or pink. 

         At first I was convinced I would never love anyone or be loved again. It was all or nothing, life or death, her or no one. I think I’m moving on. Because she doesn’t seem real now, not as something I could touch or talk to. More the kind of dream you miss when you wake up. But I still think about her all the time.

         The stranger has finished with her lipstick now, she’s searching through her bag for something. A pack of cigarettes. Mostly empty. There’s no smoking allowed in the complex, but it isn’t my business. I notice a large birthmark below her eye, still visible through caked-on foundation. She pulls out a lighter, takes two cigarettes from the pack, sticks one in her mouth. Offers the other one to me with a mild half smile— “You look like a smoker,” she says, without any trace of a question in her voice. I take it between my middle and index fingers like they do in movies. Thank her. She nods in return as the doors open and gets out. Her heels make no sound on the carpeted hallway.

         I’ve only smoked twice in my life and both times found it unbearably disgusting. The first time was with Ramona, she was- is- a chainsmoker and I asked if I could try. We were sitting on the living room floor half-clothed, having started to get dressed and each stopped for different reasons, her to light a cigarette, me because I so enjoyed looking at her bare back in the dim lamplight and while watching her felt such a surge of something that could have been adoration or lust that I had to sit down to steady myself.      

         I tried not to cough afterward. It didn’t work. She just laughed and patted me on the head like I was a little boy and said, “God, you’re so unspoiled. It’s adorable.” And I was going to retaliate by saying how we’d had sex not ten minutes ago, so I wasn’t completely innocent, but she blew smoke rings into my face and they stung my eyes and I didn’t think in words anymore.

         The second time was just after she left me and I was trying to remember her, or maybe become her. 

         I’m not going to try to smoke this one, I decide, I’m going to throw it away. I shouldn’t have it. The elevator doors open. Ground floor.

January 2.

         Did I remember to buy butter? Fuck. I think I forgot. Typical. Now I’ll have to go back later; I promised Eli we’d make cookies tonight and he’s been looking forward to it all week so I can’t disappoint him.

         This time in the elevator he hasn’t pressed any of the buttons except the one for our floor. That’s progress. I should tell him I’m proud of him but it might come out sounding mad because I’m annoyed about the butter. Not like it’s that hard to go to the store, I’m a grown woman, I can handle the drive, it just isn’t convenient and could easily have been avoided if I’d actually bothered to look at the shopping list.

         Some lady gets on. She coos at Eli and surprisingly it gets a little smile out of me. I hear him ask her what ‘that is’ on her face. A birthmark. Oh go, this is humiliating. She’ll think I’m a terrible parent who doesn’t teach respect. But she just giggles a bit. I guess she’s willing to forgive him because he’s young so he doesn’t know any better. I wish I could get out of anger’s way that easily. I lean over to her and say, “Sorry, he hasn’t learned manners yet.” The doors open to my floor. 

         Eli begins jumping, excitedly chirping, “Mommy! We’re making cookies!” over and over again. Fuck, I really don’t want to go back to the store. Maybe there's a recipe for chocolate chip cookies without butter that I can find?

January 3.

         I don’t know what I can say to her now. Somehow I didn’t imagine this part about life existed, this part of getting old, getting cancer, hating my walker and my hobbling steps, writing a will in complete seriousness, bidding farewell to my only daughter, to my husband, even older but somehow healthier than me. I see the mother clinging to her son’s hand as tightly as he is clutching hers, and I think someday she is going to say goodbye to him forever. Right now, though, he is young, innocent, one hand holding his mother’s and the other smeared with crumbs from the cookie shoved halfway into his mouth.

         When I was younger, I imagined the stinging loss of relationships. Boyfriends appeared and disintegrated, blew away with the wind, and I cried for a few days but I knew it was a fact of life. I knew my parents would die eventually, because they were old, like I am now. Dying is what old people do. It’s their new job, after retiring: preparing for death. I just didn’t think about how it would be for me. 

         I used to be a poet. Now my lungs are rotting from the inside. I could have used that as a metaphor in a poem, my younger self would’ve liked it. 

         After I told my daughter I don't want to be cremated, I said not to worry, I only wanted her prepared for when the time came for me to step off. This seemed to comfort her a little. I was glad for that. I’m too slow walking to leave the elevator; the doors start closing and I have to wave my hands around to get them to open again. I’m struck by the sight of my wrinkled hands. They belong to disease, not to me anymore. Shaky with age.

         Such a nice world it is. Maybe they’ll make some technology before I die, upload my brain onto a hard drive so I can talk to my daughter, talk to my grandkids. Yes, that would be nice.

January 4.

         it’s so cold did they not turn the heater on this morning even the walls are cold this fucking lady with a big spot next to her nose said happy holidays like I care the holidays are over already she needs to stop smiling at me I hate when people are happy now there’s some other guy here there’s too many people on this elevator I’m claustrophobic it isn’t a very big elevator they’re talking why are they talking today is too miserable to talk god I’m so hungover my head hurts their voices are too loud why am I being so mean I’m usually a nice person I mean not unusually nice but a normal amount of nice this guy sounds fucking sad he should go see a psychiatrist or something his tone just screams depression what are they even talking about I should probably leave my girlfriend so why am I going to see her what the hell can I say I’m such a shitty person she’ll never forgive me how can I say I love her when I do shit like this I act like an asshole maybe I can write her a poem or something she might like that I know saying the drugs turn me into someone else isn’t true she thinks I should go to rehab and just get it over with already but I’m scared this is her floor last chance to turn back shit what if she isn’t there too late if she’s gone I’ll wait outside this time I’ll prove it

January 5.

         It’s been too long; my hands are shaking. No, my whole body is shaking. He didn’t leave it like he said he would. I left out the money and everything. When ten a.m. came was the breaking point. The clock made a sickening reaching-the-hour sound and I bent in half at the waist to puke. It was mostly stomach acid since I hadn’t eaten anything this morning, and now since I’ve hurled I’m going to shoot up on a completely empty stomach and that’s killed some people before but hell, if I die then I die and all my money gets donated to somewhere it’ll actually do good to the world.

         The lights are too loud in here. And the other man’s breathing is hurting my head. There’s some construction noise from outside. I pull out my phone even though the light hurts my eyes and send him another message. The elevator stops and I’m alone in the metal box so I leave a voicemail. Where the fuck is he? I’m fucking desperate. Everything hurts and I’m shivering like I’m having a seizure and I don’t want to throw up again. I’m not asking for that much— I don’t want to be stuck in my mind any longer, I need it to ease up. 

         The shifting of the ground feels bad. Because it’s going down. I’m sinking to the ground floor, sinking through the floor, the doors are opening now, come on, get up. Somewhere between the second and third floor I sat down and threw up again. If I get out fast no one will know it was me. 

         My phone makes a sound. He says he’s here outside on the corner of Orange and Helena. I can get there. I can get there. I grab the railing and stand up before the doors close. Then stick my hand out. It’s shaking. The doors are closed. Someone’s gotten in and they’re talking to me. They’re taking out their phone and dialing. I’m dizzy and I sit down while they try to talk to talk to me. My skin is all sweaty. It doesn’t feel good. I just need another dose and I’ll be ok. 

         After some time I hear a siren and it clicks- that’s for me. 

         I try to run but the floor is going down again and a man’s arms are holding me back and he’s shining a light in my eyes, taking me away.

January 6.

    I wipe my nose with my sleeve. It leaves a streak of blood. That makes me feel good because it means I’m tough enough to be the kind of man who gets in a fight. In their own unique way the punches felt good. They proved me to myself. 

         I kind of know that he didn’t deserve it but men like that have it coming. You can’t just be an asshole all the time, someway or other karma is going to pay you back. I don’t want to get into the hippy-dippy kind of bullshit, but I believe in fate. Not like that sugar-sweet ‘these two were destined to fall in love’ but like action as a result of action. I think if I looked really close at the universe I’d be able to see it. 

         That coward can’t swagger around with his drooping jeans and pristine white shoes and expect to get through the week without a punch in the face. He can’t spit at other people and not get that back.

         Fuck. By that logic I’m out to have payback too. Because I hit that dickhead harder than he hit me. A drop of blood drips out of my nose and lands on the elevator tile. I think that’s going to be me if I don’t make up for it. I wipe the blood away with my shoe and it leaves a little brown smudge. 

         How many good things make up for a bad thing? I wish I could ask someone that. 

         My shoulder aches. I like that pain. I must be strong, to have done that. I should do bad shit, I should join a gang and do cocaine and fuck a different girl every night. I think I will. Then no one will be able to say I didn’t fight hard. 

         Someone walks in. He eyes me like he’s intimidated. He asked if I heard about the guy in the elevator the other day. I haven’t. I roll my eyes and he looks worried. He says nevermind but keeps talking anyway. Says some dude passed out in here the other day, got sent off to rehab. Like I care.

January 7.

         The man in the elevator asks if I’m moving. He has an accent but I’m not good with accents, I don’t know where it’s from.

         Yes, moving in.

         He says, I thought I saw you here last week? You gave me a cigarette?

         I think. I remember. Yes that was me, I was coming to take another look at the place— deciding where to put the furniture. I nod in the direction of the chair, wrapped up in plastic.

         What look are you going for?

         I look at my T-shirt. It has a picture of a tiger on it. You mean my shirt? I got it at the zoo. 

         He blushes. It’s kind of cute, in a kicked puppy kind of way. He says, no I mean with your furnishing. Like antique, modern, mid century modern, you know?

         Oh, oh yeah. Haha. Sorry, of course that’s what you meant. I like a lot of different stuff. Dull colors mostly, like dusty reds and browns, earth tones. I think they’re atmospheric.

         That sounds nice. Well, good luck— this is my floor. 

         I look at the number. Oh hey it’s mine too.

         He smiles a little and I notice he has a sad looking face. Or maybe just very deeply contemplative. One of those people that’s made of poetry. Or something. He says, well then we’re neighbors. Or at least in the same hallway. 

         I put out my hand. Hi, neighbor. I’m Frankie. Yes it’s a girl’s name.

         Rothko, he says. Embarrassing name I know. My parents thought it was impressive.

         No it’s a cool name. I once read a book about someone named Rothko. He died at the end though.

         Happens to the best of us.

         Yep. Well, see you around, neighbor.

         Good night.

         Night.