The sky in the room before me is stenciled through an alacrity of small lights, each of them tiny stars in the dark themselves, rising from and falling into various glows on the image of a dark planet that fills the better part of the room. It hangs heavy, solaced and oversized while a graveyard of other once living lights oscillate beyond its doomed silhouette in a perfect unchangeable pattern, all moving together, all one. There is a distortion that occurs when with my hand I try to touch the tiny ships that display a the smallest dots of light here. My hands large in this effemeral diorama closing affectionately around the minutia and in closing distort through some circumstance the image of themselves cast here, not unlike my hand, reappearing when withdrawn and I, always looking for a reaction in these tiny intelligent lights do not find it, being the one who realy is not there.
I am not helpless, we never are. I have found three windows but I think they are dirty. I try to see the same world through them but a different kind of darkness presses on that glass. It has lost its stars and its dark planet.
“I want to move this.” I ask him. I have stopped calling him dad. He is not my dad. I call him that once after a fit. I had been sedated I think, I was laying or had been laid down, I do not remember which. It was something about how I saw him then, like being my father was a curse. I said that it was. He hears but says nothing. Its light when he is here.
She does not come today and He is packing things in containers and making them disappear. I follow him into rooms I cannot go into without him. I know that I am different. Before even, before they showed me others, I felt like an ugly child, pupae, born of beautiful parents. He showed me things that he said were inside of me too but they did not look like it. I know what’s inside me and I can’t get it out like the things in the case. Most of the containers have been disappeared now. I think, if I can get in there without him, if I could get through those walls too…
I do not ask him to wait. I stopped asking him for anything a long time ago but the things he says are inside of me cry wait, please wait! He is not right about me.
He shows me how to move the world using the array. He changes a color on the feeder, now I can feed myself. His large hand on my head might have meant something too, but I think I had moved into him, neither of us realy seeing where eachother were. He is careful around me. He doesn’t say he is leaving but he is. I tell myself he will come back, that She will too. I wait near the lock sometimes, listening, inventing phantom clicks and moving gears until they do not need to be invented anymore. I remember that slow door, the hiss and scream of light but there is little of that light now, instead only glowing runners pulse occulant, making real the small areas of floor and wall nearest them. There are times I lay down here but that faint faint glow is not warm and yet. At the door I wait for him, suffering under the ceasless anticipation of the gears whirring and the mechanisms phantom release and the door, why won’t it open. I imagine him returning, stopping and with thought, regretting he came back then turning to go again leaving me as I am inordinately bound by whispers of this return living only in me now. Either way the door never opens.
There is no fighting concessions from an unwilling parent, nor an unable one and the walls that would open for him when he was here will not open for me though I never left and those dusty pieces he says are me call out from behind that glass to be in again, against loneliness but I remember a goodbye where there was just leaving, warmth in his hand where there was never a touch, a window or a light. I tell myself his love hid, like my hand too big around ships like stars unwilling, that he knew better than reaching at all.
I am warm. The glow has lessened as if it could, replacing now forever what used to be an explosion of light when he would visit and like the small white teeth and the misordered bones, books and clothes he said were here, beneath this skin too, hurting inside of me, cry too and watch the last lights leave a now dark planet that still fills the room. I do not know how to move it anymore. When the last light leaves I tell myself its the two of them, that I was loved, that the small star following some invisible orbit now is their souls combined leaving just the one light rising into the heaven of me dreams and I won’t look away, I won’t. And then it is just that great periphery of stolid lights through circumstance or dream bound together and dead to themselves, spinning so slowly as one, as still as bones they stare.
I have only ever seen one star since, swooped and surreal to be near then gone, forggetting. “I am a light like these.” I say and turn to look for him. And the lock stirs where ghosts of movement are, no longer seeking my will to claim their place in me, to live too. I am a hidden thing too, watched but not seen, known but unheard, still in vast fields until you look away, please don’t look away.
I weaken as I imagine I must. These words are shown in the array with a cypher I have written in my blood you could read it, but it will not stay. I hear the lock whir but not for me, not for me.