Feeling Blue

My hands are stained last night blues.  I held the sky in the palm of my hand; did you notice?

Did you notice the sky disappear?  Maybe your roommate choked a bit in their snoring or the light from the window disappeared.

But what was I supposed to do with the sky?  I let it soak into my skin, and it hurt, and it wasn’t at all dreamy.  The clouds burned, twisting and tying my tiny little knuckle hairs together just to be mean.

So I let it go.  But as it bounded out, eager and free, I stretched with it.  All of the sudden I was the sky, blue and wide, and I thought if my mother was looking out of her window now then she’d probably tell me to start eating better.

The moon was angry I blocked his light.  He came to rest into my belly button so he could be seen, making sure to jab an elbow at me.  He was burning hot, and my skin melted as tiny droplets of rain.

The sun felt left out.  I said, wait your turn.

Why?  She asked.  The moon is constantly showing during my time; why not I during his?

I think about telling her that this is the way of the world, perhaps making it about the patriarchy.  No, I decided.

You have to want it, I say.  Find your place, it will not be given to you.  Be strong, be loud.  Shoot your rays, burn my skin, and do not apologize.

I will hurt you, she said.

Do you think yourself better than the moon because you think of me? Because you care for my pain?  Because you have not dug between the lint in my belly button?  I ask.

She hesitates.  I know her answer.

That is more selfish than any moon on any planet, I tell her.

What if I speak and no one hears me?  She asks.  What if I dig into your belly button and you swallow me whole?

Silly, I think.  I’m so tiny, just a human.  But right now I am the sky, and the sun is afraid of me.  She quakes for no reason because she fears everything bigger than she.

What if the world has no glow?  I counter.

She cautiously steps forward, and I make a spot for her in the circle of my lips.  She is so frighteningly cold..  The fog of my breath turns into clouds, lined with my spit that has become icicles.

I return to Earth.  The only evidence of the event is my blue hair, chapped lips, and a really weird belly button.

Author: Zoe Conner

I'm Zoe Conner. I'm writing on a computer named Rambo, which you should only say with a rolled r. I write because I don't want to be just another cog in the machine. I live. I write. That's all you need to know. View all posts by Zoe Conner