Matters of the Heart - a monologue
Setting: Senior Airman Spicer, (a single mother in her mid-twenties, serving in the USAF as an AGE mechanic) is sitting on a mechanics stool holding a rag and a wrench next to a large tool box in a hanger bay. She is wearing dark blue coveralls, and tan boots...she has grease stains on her face and hands.
Spicer: maybe i have too many unorganized dreams that haunt my day as i turn wrenches and haul shit back and forth across the flight line...(she wipes off a wrench with a shop rag)...maybe my dreams are haunted by too many unorganized obsessions of your face and the way you taste...i hunger for the savory smell as the lunch toll bells and the day is half way through...when will i be with you??? (Kimberly stands, opens a drawer, and returns the wrench to its home)...soon...soon enough or not, will you know the truth that i feel deep inside the depths of my aching little emo heart (she closes the drawer, picks up a different tool off the top of the tool box, and sits back on her stool)...I'm shying from the tuff girl you first met, the one you fear, the one you block out (she continues to wipe the tool)...take heed to my words for they may not be wise or standard to the norm, but they ring true to my heart, my guts groan in the weight of them...so i spue them here and now...I've fallen yet again into an eternal pit that always sucks me back in...here i am weak, but strong...here i am myself...lost in your darkness, just like a black hole...i feel whole, yet empty (she stands again opening a different drawer, replacing the now clean tool, picks up another, and leans on the tool box)...my aching little emo heart tells me so...take this flaccid time share with a grain of sand , it has been used over and over, passed down through families and maintained by slum lords that can not afford the high maintenance to maintain the foundation...it's crumbling...and I'm tumbling into your lap in the back seat of my 2002 air force blue dodge neon...i promise i won't spue...(she pokes around at the loose tools on top of the tool box) I'm sick from tight turns about the ever changing face of the mountains, but i took my pills and i should be well into my terrors of night before the sickness sets in...(she crosses her arms and rest's her head on the tool box for three beats, then stands up again) this is all in the light of the fact that i can not say what i mean to say, but i hold it in in fear of loss of self control (grasping a new tool to her chest)...can you taste it??? this sickness runs deep and spreads fast...not from the motion of the mountains, but from the emotion of love...settle my sea...tell me...tell me it's ok for me to be me...the unstable little roller coaster ride...i can't hide...this is me...bare as you've stripped me to be...i can no longer maintain the shell that protects...(she returns to her stool) I'm soft and ready to serve...take me or let me melt in the hot desert sun...(drops her head in her hands)
END SCENE
