death by jewelry

the bracelet pinched at my skin, leaving red welts that seared into the white wrist-flesh below the antiqued metal. I refused to let go. like the old lady on the train who couldn’t remember where she was going, I would die wearing my dior knockoffs that only cost $10 in new york’s Chinatown. the bracelets used to hide red scars which had since faded. I refused to let go, like a small child or baby who doesn’t believe in object permanency. they weighed me down and made shopping bags more difficult to collect. they pinched and pulled and scraped and made my skin dry and eventually bloody, causing more damage than the wounds they were originally meant to hide.

I swear to god it really wasn’t that bad. more like bad and good intertwined until I couldn’t tell them apart anymore. my sisters and i danced and screamed and shrieked and put on plays and talent shows. I wrote poetry and dreamed of being a ballerina and president at the same time. my camera was the map to my heart. in second grade i quit poetry to be a rockstar and started a band so I could spend hours cutting and pasting my photos into posters advertising our concert, in theory to earn a girl scout badge. I knew I wasn’t the strongest singer, even at age 7, my strength lay in event planning and promition. I talked mom into color Xeroxing the flyers and dutifully sold handmade tickets for 5 cents apiece at our cookie table outside Vons.