by Rebeka Singer
“Untitled Still of Video Poem Project”, Copyright © 2015 Stasja Voluti
Here’s my soul. I’m giving it to you. Do you want it? Will you take it? I don’t care for it much anymore. My soul never gave me much. And now here it is: I’ll curse it out. “Every inch of my tar black soul,” Lana sings. That’s mine. Thank you, Lana, for making tar black souls sound soulful.
I watch a Harry Potter film each night, sometimes two in a row, either the same, or two separate films in the series. I drink champagne and pop Xanax to numb the fear that I might actually be alone, or, worse, I might actually need to be alone.
See, I want to be in love—with my boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, he never really can decide his status, or my ex-husband, whom I left for my phantasm of a boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. Never can tell. Can’t tell much. Wish I could say, “Can’t tell me nothing” like Kanye West. An ex-friend text me the other day: “Don’t parade your life around Facebook like Kanye West. You’re not a rich, famous rapper— yet.” That’s not verbatim.
The spring branches storm outside my bedroom windows. The leaves are green and full, strong enough for the wind.
“Do I detect elm,” Voldemort taunts. “And the core?” He snaps the wand’s handle. ”Dragon heart string.” A snake devours a witch who encourages humans and wizards to mate. She’s dead, “dinner,” actually. Let the movie begin.
It must be cold outside. Strange knowing he will never lie again in this bed with me. The bed we bought together, moved into our apartment. I moved out alone and went back to my parents. But you came back and lay with me some four weeks later. We were at large once again. We were a force to be reckoned with.
He’s been drinking heavy. And it goes something like this: “Entertain me… I’m bored.” “I’ve heard enough of your god damn mouth.” “You’re a politician.” “I can’t get a straight answer out of you.” “I’ve been helping you with your bullshit—helped you out of a marriage!”
“You didn’t go through my divorce.”
I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Mainly cheating. Once, twice—I’ve lost count. I was a teenager and it was kissing. I grew and it was more, until it was an affair and I was a wife. And divorced, I cheated again on my boyfriend with my ex-husband. I’m no angel. Thank you, Beyoncé, for glamorizing that phrase.
I loved that photo you deleted. The one of me in my lace bra and underwear, hip cocked to the side, arms slouched over my head. I was my thinnest. Had over 100 Instagram likes on it. But you were too jealous, weren’t you?
Soon the spring blossoms will fall.
Do the leaves envy them? Do they sneer knowing that they will stay bound to the branches, while the blossoms will fall to dust under children’s feet on the streets in the May rain? They will brown around the edges until they lose their brilliant richness and the summer grows tunnels of green.
I’m in bed with all my prescriptions: Harry Potter, champagne, Xanax and iPhone.
I could cry.
Then you call and my chest pumps like I hadn’t taken those two Xanax tabs only an hour ago. I pick up but I can’t remember what I say. It’s more like whatever I said was transmitted telepathically. I send you a scene: howling limbs and the bed, the wizarding world of candlelight and cauldrons; hand wrapped too tightly around the stem of a champagne flute trying to bring the dry drink to my dry lips, my stiff body struggling at another aching apology—
“You know you’re a drunk, too. You’re by yourself now,” he spits. “Have a good fucking weekend you fucking slut.”
Rebeka Singer is a writer, teacher, banking ingénue, and aspiring rapper living in her native Providence, RI. She received her MFA in creative fiction writing from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in Eclectica Magazine, Dogzplot, The Quotable, Corium Magazine, Extract(s) among others.
Stasja Voluti is a lens-based visual artist. She believes that art can be many things, but that it always is the viewer who has the last word. Her sensualist and poetic approach in her work covers a wide range of subjects including loss and isolation, illness, perception of the feminine, and anything else that pertains to the human condition. Her work has been exhibited in Canada, The US, Holland and Italy, and is in the private collections of many worldwide. She currently resides in British Columbia.