When I’m sitting in my bed alone.
The light suddenly too bright for my eyes.
When I’m sitting alone amidst a pile of clothing, yours and mine.
Clothing we took off each other a few days before. Clothing we’d throw, landing around us and blanketing the ground.
Our underwear, wet and left to dry in clumps.
Clothing we’d wiggle and tear and shimmy our way out of to reveal our soft skin, pale and warm. Skin we’d rub and kiss and scratch and bite. Skin that left signs of you on me and me on you.
Scratches and blood down your back and inner thigh, bites on my back and shoulders and neck. We’d admire them in the mirror after. You behind me. Our bodies, little and pale together in my dark room. "Look at us," you’d whisper, "all naked and cute and bloody."
And I gave you my second pillow and I gave you my leggings to sleep in.
And I gave you my body to bite and chew and scratch and hold.
And the cubby in the corner by the door.
And the white walls of my room, filled with our shadows.
You tell me you can’t sleep and you often can’t. It’s dark in my room, but some light comes through my blinds, making your messy bleach blonde hair glow like little sparks of energy emitted from your beautiful and fucked up brain.
I shine the light from my cell phone on the dark white walls.
Twisting my fingers around each other to make a gorilla or ape or some kind of primate. And this primate roams around my room, speaking in a Shakespearean dialect, misquoting Hamlet. You laugh, then twist your hands together too. And we could make our monkeys kiss, but I don’t remember how. And the walls of my room were alive with our shadows, yours and mine. My walls filled with you and me and me and you.
And I gave you my bed and a blanket with birds on it.
And I gave the pink lemonade flavored lube and my vibrator to use on me.
And I gave you my favorite song. My favorite movie.
I gave you my body and my room and the white walls filled with our shadows.
You call me crying from the backyard of your friend’s house, messed up on your new anti-anxiety meds and vodka. And I got you an Uber to bring you to my room.
And I take off your puke stained t-shirt and black skinny jeans. And we turn the shower on as I hold you. Scrubbing your blonde hair with my shampoo and singing to you lightly. And you fill your cheeks with water, looking like a chipmunk, and wait until I’m not looking to spit the water in my face. And I cover your skinny body with bubbles from my loofah. And you do the same to me and hold me tight. We stick together as the bubbles from your body and the bubbles from mine join.
And I gave you my bed. And the sheets, stained from fucking.
The sheets with Oreo crumbs and strands of your hair.
And I gave you my headphones and my leggings.
And I gave you my room with the walls filled. Filled with our shadows.
And I find signs of you in everything that is mine.
And all of me makes me think of you.
And you still have my favorite leggings.
And you still have my headphones and that book I lent you.
You have my favorite song and movie.
And I’m alone on my bed.
And I cry when I fuck someone new, because when they fall asleep after, on my bed, in my room, I close my eyes and pretend they are you.
And soon enough I’m alone on my bed again.
And I close my eyes to keep from seeing all of what reminds me of you.
But even with my eyes closed, I know the walls of my room, once empty and white, are filled, covered, ruined with your shadows.
About the artist...
Anna Rose Wolfe is an writer / performer. Anna is a graduate of Columbia College Chicago, where she earned a BA in Acting and a minor in Gender Studies. She performs regularly with The LIVINGroom, a solo performance ensemble. Anna has been featured in venues and fests around Chicago, such as Life Line Theater’s Fillet of Solo Festival, Greenhouse Theatre Center’s Solo Celebration, Abbie Hoffman Died for Our Sins Festival, National Cool Shorts, Flat Iron Comedy, Greenhouse Theatre Center's SoloPerformance Lab, The Plagiarists Salon, and The Election Monologues.
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