What Does Blue Feel Like? by Jessica Davidson

happened
    but I can guess.
    When teachers ask him about it,
    he says that I bashed him, that I did it.
    I suppose that’s true in a way.
    I’m just about to feel guilty
    when I remember
    he didn’t have to get in the bath with me,
    he didn’t have to kiss me,
    and he definitely didn’t have to cheat on me
    in the first place.
    I don’t think he deserved the shiner,
    but it’s not really my fault.

Second time around
    The next time I visit the shrink,
    she tells me that she’s not giving me antidepressants
    until I’ve tried a few other things first.
    She tells me to concentrate on my diet —
    â€˜For a month, only eat lots of really healthy food
    and see how you feel.
    And make sure you get plenty of sleep.
    Cut down on your caffeine,’ she says, eyeing my Red Bull.
    â€˜And do some enjoyable things —
    hang out with your friends
    do something for yourself that you haven’t done in a while.
    Nurture your body.’
    Yeah, right.
    My body functions quite well on Maccas, grog and sleep.
    Â 

    I lie in bed that night,
hands on my stomach,
remembering what it felt like
to be pregnant.
The feeling is starting to fade and blur
but pieces remain.
Enough to convince me
that there’s a hole inside,
threatening to engulf the whole of me,
take me over and swallow me up.
Sometimes I think I’m nothing inside,
just a hole.
Sometimes I feel
so goddamn empty
I think I could scream, tear out my hair, fall to the ground,
but my mouth stays shut,
my hands stay obediently by my sides,
and my knees are locked rebelliously.
I keep walking.
Partially because I have to
and partially because I’m scared
of what will happen
if I stop.

Party girl
    I get invited to a party on the weekend.
    My parents don’t want me to go
    now that they know I drink.
    They don’t want me to go.
    How fucked up is that?
    I bitch to the shrink.
    I tell her what I said to my parents —
    â€˜Now you want to police me? It’s too late for that.’
    She says that even though it’s hard to believe,
    parents really do want the best for their children,
    mine are probably worried about my safety,
    not to mention my liver.
    When she starts talking about parents and kids, I try to
    keep my poker face on but I can’t.
    She sees the twinge on my face
    and tries to probe
    but I clam up.
    None of her goddamn business.

Power trip
    I tell my parents I’m going,
    whether they like it or not.
    They threaten to lock me in my bedroom
    so I don’t come home after school on Friday.
    I go home with Bronwyn instead.
    As we get ready, I explain to her
    that I don’t really care whether or not I go to this party
    but I am not letting my parents win this power struggle.
    She understands.
    If I had stayed home,
    they would have won.
    They ring my mobile
    but I don’t answer.
    At Bronwyn’s insistence I send them a text,
    saying that I’m alive,
    that I’ll be home in the morning.
    My father leaves a message on my voicemail
    telling me that if that’s my attitude
    not to come home at all.
    And then about half an hour later
    he rings back
    and says that, of course, he didn’t mean it,
    that he wants me to come home.
    Of course he does.
    I’ll have to stay out tomorrow night as well.
    Just to keep him guessing.

Hello, Jim
    Bronwyn and I stick together at the party.
    We’re drinking cocktails that other people
    are making for us,
    with not a worry about what’s in them.
    As long as they’ve got plenty of grog, they’re fine with us.
    When I’m starting to feel more than mildly drunk,
    a bunch of guys that none of us knows shows up.
    Apparently they’re someone’s cousin’s friends.
    They seem friendly enough,
    and they’ve brought more alcohol
    so they’re allowed to stay.
    One of the guys takes a liking to Bronwyn,
    and he and his friends come to sit by us.
    The one wearing a cap is about to chat me up
    when Jim comes over,