Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

ELENA RAKOVA


* * *


It's raining again —
Nothing new about that.
When there is no light,
And it's raining that hard,
People in Sweden and Finland
Kill themselves.
I think Seattle unofficially
Placed third after them.
Cool.
Friday night finally came — yay.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
Thursday, Friday — that's how long
I've been waiting for it.  So now I can sit
and think how lucky I am that
it's Friday night, because there is
nothing else to do.
I don't go out into the night.
I don't go out, period.
I don't smoke.
I don't drink.
I don't drink and drive.
I don't sniff, or snort or smoke pot.
I don't dye my hair, or pierce my nose,
ears, eyes, or buttonhole.
I get to walk around in torn-on-the-knees
jeans, though — that's how I rebel — until
my parents take them away and throw
my made-with-scissors-rebelliousness
into the garbage, like they threw
everything else away.
I don't sleep with anyone.
I don't kiss anyone.
Maybe I am gay.
Yeah, that's it.
Ok, who am I kidding?
I am not.
I don't skip classes often
and I only swear under my
breath and moderately,
really-really moderately.
I am normal.
Yessir, I am normal.
My friends don't drink,
smoke, sleep, kiss, snort,
sniff, drive or wear
torn-on-the-knees-jeans.
They are normal.
Yessir, normal.
They often say that I
am weird, and when they
do, I laugh and hug them
and I say: «Amen!»
The usual banter is leaking
through the walls of my
room.  I didn't know that the
people with degrees can
curse and damn and wear
each other out like that.
Heck, I didn't even know that
normal people could.
I want to drive out of here,
but I don't have the keys,
I don't have the car, and
I've got no driving hands.
And also, what if I
make the wrong turn
and jump onto the wrong
side of the road and crash
into the wrong traffic,
instead of stopping it with my
out-of-the-world-torn-knee-
jeans.
Kick it.
Spit it.
Break it.
Take it.
Make it.
Ditch it.
Switch it.
Swear at it.
Ok, I am going to chill —
The X-Files rerun just started.