The weather is the only friend I have. I’d like others, but I’m too ashamed of who I am.
It’s hard for me to speak, to control my breathing. I end up in a kind of spotlight that freezes me in place, nailed to the boards. Sometimes I’m like a horse at the starting gate, thrashing about as the crowd groans, impatient. I’m crazy and won’t go into the gate. The race starts without me and they talk about putting me down. She won’t run, they say.
Give her more medicine. Something to numb her living. Turn her into water, circling round.
Everyone looks at me and eyes are knives.
Online I read the weather report, the projections fluttering on my face in the half-light. Please no sun, no clear days with kites in the sky. No spring flowers. I only want good weather, bad weather for you, but we’re different, like a truce compared to war.
Good for me are the heavy, blinding rains. I revel in raincoats and hoodies, long pants, and rubber boots. The snow is even better, building drifts, silence. The heavy wool, the knitted caps, the scarf wrapped around my face. The wind, rain, snow, black storms, one after the other … please, take me away to a hidden spot.
Hurricanes and blizzards are like lovers beneath the sheets.
I love it when it gets dark early. When the clouds move in slowly from the sea. Grey cotton for the city. The alleys acting like small shivers of night. The shadows fall over me and I move about unknown, a leaning nightmare on the high bridge. Winter is my favorite time of all. The few people I encounter, I quickly trap inside my rib cage. I won’t let them out to bother me. I treat them poorly, even torture them just for fun. I go on long walks alone, the prisoners inside, surrounded by black trees growing broken mirrors.
My good weather is bad weather for you. It saves my life. Otherwise, I’m locked away from the spring, the warm breeze. Four walls and two cats, unclean thoughts upon the floor, going insane by the inches around me, waiting for the owner to kick me out into the sunny day.
It’s a matter of time, and I end on the street, concrete and stench. The place where no one cares. Move on, always moving on with swollen hands and bad news along the walls.
I once jumped off an overpass, but hit some trees and fell into the bushes. I lay unconscious for a few hours and when I awoke it was nighttime. I felt so alive in that moment and then the snow began. I had a reason to live. The snowflakes burned into my face, a good feeling. I wrapped my body in a blanket and walked to the shore waiting for a boat to take me out to sea and drop me like an anchor off the cold coast, the place where I was born and died in the same moment. It was as if history stopped for me and all the books were blank pages.
There are no windows in my head, no phone calls, no appointments, no one is lovely. Only people waiting to examine my exterior, my damaged skin, my expressions found in dog pounds and within the injured cat community.
Nobody knows what fragile means to me, except my friend, the good weather.
Bad weather for you, very bad for you. Run and hide, I’m coming like a sick thought in falling mercury.