The Photograph Room

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire with a charring sense of prosperity that comes with being self-assured, maybe self acquitted?

No that's not the word. Self-defined? 

Wait, how can leaves be self-defined in the sense of a poem written by Mary Shelly, where the monster is eaten up by the fire of his own longing for a lost love. 

No, they weren't on fire. Perhaps they were thrown instead. 

Thrown like the words that you threw at me about my insecurities. See, I mopped up the words splattered on the walls by the silver, velvet tongue of those long forgotten. But how was I to forget the way 'I hate you' was traced on my back by icy fingers of those long past? 

Oh, I am going to have to tell him that I am pondering, discussing- 

Crazy. No, I'm not crazy because that would apply that I am not aware of what's going on in the day to day events. I take out the trash at 6:30am. I arrange to see the shrink. Which I am going to be late for, mind you, and then scout out the next one. Honestly, you were an accident. 

No not in the way that you died, but rather a mistake. Just like a newborn baby is to be aborted, you shouldn't have caught my eye. Enticing. 

It was too easy for you to have a glass of wine with me after talking about my problems. The mundane of everyday living enchanted you under my spell of temptation.  Too easy, you stayed the night after looking at yourself through the reflection of the photograph room. Too easy was it to open the wrong door that exposed the 'crazy' that I long to hide. Too easy were you to be like the others even though I promised myself it wasn't going to happen again. 

Oh, nevermind that. Do you think the dead talk back? 

I don’t think they do. I see the leaves on fire and do I long for the way your throat lets out a bloody scream that seemed to wrap me up. Maybe it is self-assured.

No, self-denial. The leaves fall in a way that reminds me of the first. A young man who danced with me in the kitchen to the toon of Patsy Cline. His shallow words matched his shallow cries as a knife plunged into his shallow chest. On to the next, that was self-defense. 

What they don’t tell you about love is how much it hurts. The purple smeared across my eyes that hurt to open was left by the second. A man with a fury that none could tame unless you went frame by frame. He inspired me as you inspire me. He did love photographs, you know?  

I didn’t expect you to open that door. That room was a secret that was shared with a certain intimacy that a deer shares with the man who holds a gun in camo. Photographs line the walls of all my past lovers that I hoped you wouldn’t become. Maybe they do talk back. 

Well, maybe not because the sixth didn’t like to be captured by a single moment until after death. Any time I tape his up next to the others the photos fall down. 

The leaves. They do fall down with a sort of delirium that you told me I had. Maybe if you were nicer I would have done it slower, maybe enjoyed it a little. Instead, you made me feel shame. Professionalism went out of the window in our first encounter when I booked an appointment to talk about my ‘feelings’. 

Professionalism. Perhaps I should lay out a tarp in the photograph room that reflects off of the mirror on the ceiling. I could put it next to the trunk of knives and play traps that seem to bring me more company as I fall faster into insanity or sanity. Leaves. 

Thoughts are like leaves. I do wish I could hear what they taught you at shrink school. What would they think of your body next to me? Of my head resting on your stomach as your heart lays next to the vase of spilled flowers? Would they call me crazy? Do they think the dead talk back?

I think they are with me now. Cold hands grip my consciousness as I lose track of time. Time. Gold. Money. Fame. Wondering, do you think the press would compare your blood to the leaves on fire?

The new shrink will not be as good as you were. In our sessions over a coffee or over midnight glances I snuck when you were with other people, I did see that you were insecure like I was. Death is like the leaves on fire that seem to fall with the grace of self-insight. 

No wrong word. Maybe if the dead did talk, you would tell me what I was thinking. I knew what you were thinking. Oh, maybe the wine was a little stronger or tasted a little funny, salty maybe?

Maybe I am insane in the brain that compares the leaves falling to those of self spiraling. Down. Down. Down. 

Stop. Should we have this last dance before I clean you up? Perhaps your eyes can shine once again with the fire that the leaves share? No, that was rhetorical. The dead dance with me. 

This new shrink is going to think it odd that I talk about ghosts in the photograph room. Divulge me in this childhood trauma of learning about the greats that tassel with the angry voices that love to play games of war or love. Should I pick up another on the way to the new shrink? 

That’s when the greats messed up. They got lazy. You got lazy. No professionalism as you did a 5pm home check to see if I was doing okay. No professionalism as wine touched your lips for the very last time. It was boxed wine. Lazy. Lazy. Dead. 

Self-entitled. That’s what I was trying to say. The leaves were on fire with the air of self-entitlement that comes with self-respect. The dead are always self-entitled as they stay with me tracing lost thoughts on my body with icy, cold hands. I see you are no different as I stuff you into a suitcase that I will fling in my own reflection. But, good news, only for you, as I put you in my photograph room. 

As I step outside the leaves do feel like they are on fire. Fire with a desire of the next insecure man or woman to be featured as a prize I had captured. The new shrink is calling to do a home check. Maybe she will be more understanding and listen to my problems in a way that you could never understand.