For Eve
Adam's apple was more than sweet
It was juicy
Tasting of nakedness and existential questions
Adam's apple was more than ripe
It was crisp
Crunching so loudly between his teeth he wondered what bones were made of
Adam's apple was more than his
It was hers
Gifted simply to nourish him.
It was not she who was deceived
But Adam!
Adam who was told to scorn knowledge of the world
Instead of invite it
Adam who was told to rule over others
Instead of coexist
Adam who took his advice from the sky
Instead of from the ground, where he was firmly planted
Among a garden full of other fruit to try
Before god came along
Apples and cream
Cream, it's like cream. My neck is longer and paler than I remembered, though maybe the black dress just accentuates those features, adding false intensity, a forgery. My face looks peaceful, far more peaceful than I would've expected, if I'd known. I didn't know. Obviously, I didn't know. How could I? I still don't know. I don't know what happened, I don't know where I am. Where am I?
The only thing I do know is that I am outside of myself, because the me that I once was is currently bleeding out on the rainy, bloodstained cement. I think I must be a ghost, which is unfortunate, because ghosts always have cold hands, and my hands were already cold enough as is. Will anyone voluntarily hold my hands ever again?
My neck is like cream. It's stretched out, almost beautiful, so fragile. There's no life left in it. My neck does not move, but there's a small laceration by my Adam's apple, and blood drips down slowly, drips down softly.
This is so much quieter than I expected. I'm remembering more now—I'd been driving home from a bad date, and there was a crash, a car crash, and then I was no longer driving anywhere, I was dying, and then I was dead. I'm dead. I must be dead.
I can see shattered glass from the car's windows and windshield on the cement too, little icebergs atop a dark red backdrop. One of the shards must've pricked my neck, and that's why I'm bleeding. That's why the body in front of me, the one that was once me, is bleeding. Be logical, be rational. I'm trying, I'm trying.
The cut by my Adam's apple isn't what killed me, it can't be, but I don't think I want to look any closer. I'm a little self-conscious about my appearance, even after death. Instead, I focus on the drops of crimson slithering down my neck. My Adam's apple looks so prominent, and I wonder if I've always looked like that, and I wonder why no one ever told me.
I reach a hand out, or at least, I try to. There's no hand for me to reach out. I start to realize that I really don't exist, or at least, not in a corporeal sense. I'm thinking, so therefore I am, right? Surely Descartes knew what he was talking about. But who am I, and what am I?
My Adam's apple looks sheer white compared to the carmine rivulet beside it. I think the cut must've intensified somehow, because the blood pours thicker now, it pours faster. Or maybe it doesn't, maybe I'm seeing things. If I had a stomach, I might be sick. I'm not very fond of blood.
When I was younger, I ate red apples in October. Cool, crisp autumn days were incomplete without the sweetness of an apple. I had long braids back then, with bangs and glasses, and I had a little dog, and—it feels so real, why does it feel so real? I can taste those October apples, I can see that little girl with the bangs and the braids.
This is all very confusing, please bear with me. I've never died before, and I don't care to do it again. Once is enough. I wonder what happens next, and as I wonder, I start to feel faint. Everything becomes more distanced, and I feel a vast space begin to grow between myself and everything else.
I think this is it. The waiting period is over, the abyss beckons. I hope there's room in the void for one more speck of nothingness.
My Adam's apple is white, the blood is red, the dress is black. These are the colors of my death, how gory, how solemn. I might feel vaguely upset, if I had the ability. Now, all I feel is, well, nothing.
My Mark of Death
If I had known that doing that would create this mess I never would have. Late that night, doing our routine, closing spaces, breaking our oath to the lord, I made the mark. It was common place for you to tap on my window, for my hand to tug on my lamp, and for my tired steps to drag towards the window to let you in. I never disliked it. You showed up needy and hungry and I was just so excited that you wanted me. Leaving that spot on your adam’s apple allowed me to convince myself that this was still exciting, and new, and positive, and something I wanted because you wanted it. The layering over your adam’s apple tinted with a patch of red that slowly bled to purple over time. I thought you would hide it, rock a turtle neck to avoid exposing yourself as a sex-enjoying slut. That’s what my sister always told me to do, but I guess, now that I think about it, you never had a sister, or any siblings, to tell you that. Boys must have more confidence, especially more than some non-binary weirdo like me. It’s not weird, I shouldn’t be like that to myself, but come on me. Get a fucking grip. When he showed up to school he showed, danced it around in front of everyone as if he was looking for a reason for his girlfriend to despise him more. I could hear their whispering everywhere, infecting the air around me. Their words crawled up the small tunnels on each side of my head, and nested themselves into the small, pink, squishy think that controls my miserable functioning. The hellfire was too much for me. Excusing myself from english, felt like an eleven year task with the ancient woman attempting to teach over the insulting sentences spewing out of ever teenagers mouth that day. Whore, slut, and any other unholy word one would use to describe someone with an OBVIOUS hickey. Once I got out of the smallest room imaginable, I crawled myself over to the bathroom across the biggest hall imaginable. I was tugging at the air that had somehow liquidated into mud or maybe quicksand is a better word. I felt swallowed, small, impossible. Everything felt impossible, I felt impossible. My breathe was gone, my lungs had probably fallen out of ass from the night before. The walls of the bathroom had nothing to stable myself with, gripping solid wall isn’t possible so I sat down and avoided looking up into the mirror to see my panicked face. Once the bell rang I knew I had leave so I picked up my fallen bag and somehow crawled my way out of school and to the park down the street. It was the park we had met at, he had kissed me at, and the park he’d made so many promises at. It calmed me though, my lungs had regrown, my legs had restabilized, and my brain had fought off their overbearing words. Suddenly, hands pushed the swing I had peaceful been sitting on. I could tell they were his, how could I not. I remember hearing him talk, but I can never remember what about. Nothing serious. He told me he didn’t do serious. How could anyone do serious with me. This wicked, self-centered alien that can’t chose a fucking gender.
It was probably fun for him to dance around that he’d been fucked the night before. Especially, fun in front of his girlfriend whose eyes somehow managed to sink deeper into her skull every time I saw her again. I should’ve stopped, I should’ve cared more about everyone else. I should’ve cared more about her, but he probably would’ve found another person to rub in her face. But what if he hadn’t. What if he’d only settle on me and if I had cut it off this wouldn’t of happened. God I could never understand what his deal was. He made sure she knew he was with another person. Rubbed it in her face, all over body. He stained her with the shame of not being good enough and it showed. Showed through the cuts that occasionally slipped from under her skirt, the cigarettes she stashed in her bra with the outline of the box getting more obvious every time she skipped a lunch period and probably family dinner too. I knew she was dying and I went along with it. “Not your fault” I said to the bathroom mirrors whenever I felt the slightest bit of courage while panicking.
I hadn’t known until the funeral that she had actually died before the car crash. She had slit her wrists in the car and her mother was trying so hard to help her from the drivers seat that it sent them into a life-ending ditch. He went to that funeral, spoke at it even. His tears seemed real, his words seemed real, and that mark on his neck was definitely real.