2011 Issue - Santa Fe Community College

Permeate
by Sarah Velez
When you moved into the apartment next to mine, your face was
pallid. I liked to imagine counting the blue veins under the skin of your
neck from my window as you sat in the courtyard, hunched over, staring
into space. More than your voice, I believed the dark circles under your
eyes and the thinning of your hair. They couldn’t hide in the deception
of vocal cords.
When you were asleep, I pressed my speakers up against our shared
wall and played “Breathe Me” by Sia. I did it on the day we spoke about
our favorite music, even though we never spoke. I just assumed you were
asleep. I think we shared insomnia. I think we shared a lot of things.
I wanted you to trace your history on my skin, and paint my face
with song. I asked the landlady about you. She said you were just a sullen
girl. I asked if that meant you used to sail the deep and tranquil sea. She
didn’t get it, but I thought you might, so I left the CD by your door.
You were so thin the straps of the white dress you liked to wear, the
one with the small pink and blue flowers on it, constantly slid off your
shoulders. Lifted up like little wings on your shoulder blades, only to sink
towards the ground. And the bruises on your ankles, a beautiful daughter
of Hermes. You are golden, so golden.
I peered under the crack of your door before the sun rose. I couldn’t
be near you, the light just radiated. The hollows of your cheeks only reflected
how minute and useless I really was next to you. Though I’d
never been next to you. The fact was that I was small and needy, but you
ran from him, or her, or them. That first part was from “Breathe Me.” I
sang those songs quietly, into empty envelopes and tacked them to your
door. I’ve never seen you take them off. There are five there now.
You would know a lot of things if you listened. The scratching at
your doors and walls, the soft humming, like electricity, at your windows.
I listened to you. When you sobbed in the shower, or stood aimlessly in
the middle of your living room running your fingers through your auburn
hair, I knew you wanted to chop it off. It’s because I listened to the way
your fingers tugged at the loose strands. I bet he and her and them called
Santa Fe Literary Review 15