Eva Schlegel - Thoughtforms (2017)

Rubber instigates a spray of gravel, bouncing against the cracked walls of the empty pool, grass unfolding in tufts, burrowed deep beneath the basement and stretching for a glimpse of sustenance and an ounce of sunlight. They would unfold and coil back into themselves, spiraling to embrace knees. She stretches this way too. Grabbing the backs of her ankles and bending forward so I can see her face between her achilles. I dance to the reflection of the water against the acoustic tiles overhead and feel the years long lack of moisture beneath.

“No fucking water.” Scoffs, winks, heaves, squints. Her steps scatter the reflections, rippling. Spins, licking her empty palms, full circles around each wrist. Her mother told me it was compulsive. I giggled as the seriousness. I thought it was a joke. She licks her empty palms. She hates when I lick mine. She doesn’t believe in compulsion.

I watch her put a cigarette out on her tongue and swirl, smoke easing out of pouted pout. I remember when her flesh was taut against razor bones and I kissed the arches of her feet before they grew flat and I snapped them in half with rough hands full of endless splinters and nails packed with saw dust. I remember when she was.

I love the way she bends her fingers back like rubber, touching knuckle to wrist, and peels her eyelids away to show my violet bleeding into white and her pupils disappearing in erratic bursts of the light she emits.

“There will be people soon.” She whispers silence to me and it echoes and my hands twitch as footsteps climb into one ear and out the other.

We lean against the deep end’s wall, shielded by the shadow of the diving board. It’s missing a corner.

Her palms taste of salt. The chlorine burns my eyes. I cannot see them when they approach.