He is my blind spot, the part I’m oblivious to, the part I refuse to see.
He has robbed me so many times, over and over and over again, but still I see nothing.
Merely a mirage. A shimmer on the horizon.
I can hear him; his smooth talk, like an eel, cool and shining and so slippery you cannot get a good hold, you just watch as his words slip away back into the depths of the air.
I can smell him, his stale cigarettes; his signature perfume. I never touch him though, that is forbidden, he pulls away if I dare to inch forward.
I ran away, but he tracked me down, and still I don’t see the damage and destruction I allowed. Others point it out, slam it in front of me, showing me pictures and telling me truths. But I am blind to this, because deep inside he feeds me, a part of me that I am blind to, it is a meeting of our darkness, tentacles reaching each other through the distance, a tugging, a needing a longing, a destroying.
Perhaps I am his blind spot too, perhaps he only sees the outer me, the smile, the lies and the perfume bought in airport lounges.
Perhaps I need a special mirror, attach it to my emotions so they can reflect from all angles.
I could buy one, but I don’t. We are a car crash in slow motion neither of us can escape from.
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Blind Spot by Katie Welch
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Border town by Katie Welch
“Over there” – she nods, lifting her eyes for a second –using them instead of her hands, and then she is back hacking at the soil. Brown lumps of clay, tough and unyielding.
She ignores me. She doesn’t want to know me, she needs me to go and stop reminding her of its presence. She’s fighting with the soil, pouring her anger and grief into it through the fork as she searches for bones.
I don’t want to fight, I just want to know.
She stops digging and sighs, the sound heavy with irritation – yet short and sharp like a slap aimed at me. Only I dodge it and remain.
Her gloved hand wipes the sweat from her cheek leaving a trail of dust that shimmers in the vicious sun. I watch it, beautiful patterns iridescent on the cheek of hatred.
“They won’t shoot you” – the words are spat at me, then she laughs, short burst of hysteria, energised by the anger and absurdity. “Why would they shoot you” she questions?
“I don’t know, that why I’m here “ I reply.
I feel pathetic. I’m sweating. She’s back digging, shaking her head at me. I should go, but I’m stuck, rooted.
I stare at it, a mirage in the distance, the heat rising from the buildings, I can see the waves rolling upwards into the sky and wonder where they crash and land.
If I step over the invisible painted line that divides mine from yours, will I die?
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