Make Me Sing

March 26, 2003

She used to make me sing that song when we were drunk. When we were up late, I'd pull out the guitar and sing it for her. When we were up late and drunk was the only time I would do it—the only time I could do it. The words came out broken and travelled through the air in all the wrong directions. My voice would be hoarse, the tune crooked. Out of tune, out of time, I would sing it because she loved it so much. Her head would sway and move in a drunken bob as she'd sing along to every other word. When I'd finish, she'd clap her hands quietly and softly say, "Yaaay". She'd light another cigarette. Suck in deep and slow. Took in so much smoke that she couldn't exhale it all in one breath. She'd start to talk, and words would come out wrapped in smoke. We'd talk about things. About how sad we both were. Looking at her, my heart would fill with vapor, and my head would balloon. I felt like a kid pressing my hands against my eyes from the inside out. Grubby hands on a toy store window. The pills made her nose itch, and she would rub it. I put the guitar down, she put her head on my lap, and slipped away. I watched her breathe. I looked at her dirty fingernails with the chipped polish. My fingers felt the scar on her upper arm. She used to cut herself. Told me it made things seem more real when she felt out of control. The part she liked best was just before the blood escaped. It was so pristine. It didn't hurt, she told me. She would stop and get embarrassed when she spoke about it. I just listened. She hated the scars. She hated the one on her leg—the one on her breast—the one on her arm that I touched. "I haven't done it in a while."

"That's good, " I told her, "Next time you feel like you're gonna do it, call me instead. We'll hang out. We'll talk—I'll sing you that song."

"We're friends, right?" she asked.

"Of course." I watched a tear roll over the glitter, "of course."