Branded

She watched the train go round and round its circular track. Wherever it left, it always ended, because it lead nowhere. She could sit hours and hours playing with her electric toy train, or so I imagine: she has told me so.

I’ve never seen the toy train she plays with. But I can imagine it, see her in my mind, her eyes following the train’s senseless journey. She can do that: just sit quietly and watch the world pass by. Like clouds sailing the skies.

She likes clouds. She told me. I used to tell her about the clouds I would see, until I couldn’t see the clouds any more. I’d seen so many, told her of every kind I’d ever seen. Now they all blur together in a gray mush with no shape that I can make out.

I can’t see clouds any more, but I know they are there when I feel raindrops (never acid ones with dopamine) fall from the sky.

We were on my bed and she brushed my stomach with her fingers. She left a bloody mark. She looked at me, her lips slighty parted. I guess she wanted to see what I thought about it. I was confused. She wasn’t satisfied. I wondered if maybe she was branding me, marking me with her blood as her own. But I guess she wasn’t.

In some ways I wanted her to be branding me. I wanted to be owned. I wanted to be someone else’s, not my own. I knew she didn’t want me, at least not in that way. Actually, she probably wanted me in no way. She doesn’t need anyone, let alone someone of her very own.

When I guessed, she knew. That makes it harder for both of us, I think. She can’t comprehend my reactions or feelings or thoughts. I have so many, so many that aren’t needed, that are useless, senseless, countless—and thus meaningless. Above all, I was confused, and that, I think, confused her.

“Hot or cold?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“What are you thinking?” I asked. She just looked at me and wouldn’t stop, willing me to understand her without words.

I couldn’t believe what I knew her to be thinking. Too many conflicting thoughts in my own head. I can’t even hear myself. I can’t believe what I think myself. Rather than a empty slate, I’m a cluttered desk. I’ve thought too many thoughts.

Sometimes I hear the thoughts of people around me. When I’m calm. When I’m certain of myself. Today I was almost hit by a car as I was crossing the street because I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

“I love you,” she lied.

How could she—how can you love someone who doesn’t love themself? Why I am speaking in generalities, vagaries, plurals?

“I love you,” I lied.

I wanted to, but I don’t know what it means. I’m not sure, not certain. I hate myself for lying to her. I hate myself for hating myself. There is no rhyme, no reason to me. I’m good at some things, but not as good as I think I am. I lie to everyone I meet, every single person I care about. Without even speaking a word.

My thoughts follow a familiar pattern. They always circle back on themselves. Completing themselves by never reaching an end.

At least trains take you somewhere.

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