by Ralph Dartford
We have wounds. I tell myself this as I finger the scar on my cheek, wince at the film of it in the mirror. Memories are blood.
I walk downstairs. The party swings like a bell and detritus reigns. There are crushed cans, plastic plates, dog ends and a burnt sausage in a wine glass. There’s an assignation in the hallway that ends in a punched wall. My birthday party comes and goes each year. Why do I have to host it?
The music is too loud, an elastic band of bass tied to a snare. I walk out into the arms of the garden to clear the fog, breathe some night. There are no stars shining in this London, just the glare of a fluorescent city. It’s warm for April though; there may be a good blossom this spring and a new summer to graze upon.
Helen never comes to my parties anymore. Not since the incident with the cactus juice and cocaine. We drank and snorted too much of it. I told her I loved her and she panicked, slipped to get away from me. I grabbed and missed as she fell through the window. She scored my face with her sharp nails because there was nothing else to hold her up. Helen crashed to the concrete below.
This garden and this night. This party in a cell to which no one ever comes. The party of my head where she is dancing.
I touch my cheek again.