|
| And my heart broke. You can't fill it in because you can't let go. For what reason, well, it never makes much sense anyway. I missed him so much that I had to hurt myself twice. Mellow dramatic, maybe just a little. He asked me to interpret his stars. I told him what I wanted him to hear. I sometimes wonder if he listens. He left me for what felt like forever. I was ready for him to come back, but I didn't know what to do when he finally did return. I wanted to run at him, wrap my arms around him, and hold him close. Whisper into his ear. Say the things that I wanted to say. Correct the lies that I had made. I told him that I missed him. He reminded me that we were only acquaintances. I could slap myself for my own foolhardy comments. I had wanted to hurt him that night, make him feel whatever I was feeling. Passive aggressive too easy when you're afraid. He wanted to know why we weren't best friends any more. I patted his shoulder and waited for him to cup my face again with his winter hands. I decided that I loved him, and I'm not quite sure why. It'll never happen. I have already sabotaged everything anyway. I always do that. Makes it easier so I don't have to live up to anyone else's standards. They can just fail at mine. I was really honest with him, even though it sounded dumb to my ears. I've never missed someone that much. My emo cowboy. Well, my cup runith over for you and your bibbed overalls. I dare you to love me too. I miss you, my friend. I'm afraid that I don't quite don't know how to be a part of your life. It seems that everyone grew up and I stayed behind to watch in wonder. I think that's okay, but I always feel a little bit inadequate. I hope that you and your's is doing well. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I know you'll know what I mean. You always do. Everyone forgot me about me the other day. But she didn't. The friend that I have secretly hated and loved in shame. But she no longer needs to be hid in the closet. She was there for me when I wouldn't let anyone else be and when I ran from those that knew me so well. She showed up. Flowers and a cake. I cried, because she tried so hard to make me happy. Make me happy. And she did. She made me very happy. She was sick and she did the best that she could. She even made a piece of me a permanent part of her. That is love. And I love. | | |
| Snuggles and Slightly Drunkened Reese CupSomething happened. The paper was wet and sticking to the table. It reminded me of the girl's breasts, full with pink nipples turned upward underneath her white shirt when the rain fell that August night. She was beautiful, glistening, and I wanted to see her eyes in the moon light. But that was only a nocturnal emission that someone once had. I looked around and thought I saw a bit of the past in the corner, glaring at me. I didn't say anything. I couldn't speak, but my lungs burned anyway. There was so much that could shoot forth from my mouth, volatile in such an explosion that unfolded everything neatly placed inside. He was digging at his hands, the skin that dried around his chewed nails. His face was red and I expected to smell beer on his breath as he whispered me closer and proclaimed his false inebriation. There was something in those blue eyes that comforted me for the first time. I found something in them that soothed everything instantly. I knew he couldn't make anything better, but he could make me imagine that I could get through another night just one more time. They talked in hushed voices as I threw my fists in frustration. Molasses looked at me from underneath the curtain of his dark lashes. I wanted him to hold me again, warm and safe. But it would never happen like that. He would always hold me too tightly, making me wish he could be gentler. I was torn between screaming at him and telling him to kiss my cheek. I wanted to be mean, to hurt him the way that he hurt me. And I think that I did. I feel better now. I needed that drama. I think that I created it. I longed for it. Sought it with my mouth as I blew out my cigarette smoke in the most provocative manner that I could imagine. He watched me, from far away, his eyes looking guilty. I found my salience somewhere else boy. He surprised me with his blue eyes, not your hazel brown mixture of something like honey that tares me apart sometimes. I don't want him, he doesn't want me. I frustrate him with my habit to pick out everything that is wrong, every bad decision that he makes. I want to mother him, hold him to my chest, and make his world better. He just wants me to love him in some way, other than that. And I do. But secretly. Not like I love Molasses, such a slow, easy love. Something that grew out of nothing and transpired over night. His love was sporadic, frantic at times, and undefined. It was never completely explained or denied, never sought after or understood, but there, brooding elsewhere. He gave me heart palpations for no apparent reason and I ignored the fact that I thought he was a creature that I thought I had never encountered before. My superficial world, it's a way to make things more bearable. I have to have something beyond my false pretenses and illusions. I created my drama. I made the tears fall and I made the laughter erupt from between my yellow teeth and flabby chin. It wasn't the worst day of my life. That happened somewhere between the penetration of drunken stupidity and the proclamations that now only haunt me. I learned what not to say. And Molasses stared at me with another piece of nothing in his hands, the styrofoam that was our love. | | |
| Too Blue EyesWe looked at each other like lost lovers that hadn't seen each other in decades. It was distant, slightly endearing, but only a passing glance that left me aching for something that I could barely remember. I know that I had never seen him before. His eyes were too blue. I had never known anyone with eyes that compromised I knew I could loose myself in his eyes, and even in that moment I think I gave him something that I had never given anyone before. Not even myself. What it was I'm not quite sure. Only he can really know what I let go in that passing curiosity. He was younger, innocent in ways that I couldn't even remember. He looked sweet, utterly susceptible to someone like me, someone complicated enough to fuck him up for the rest of his life. I wanted to see his alabaster skin beneath the glow of all the things that could shatter his notions of what this life could be. He would be an artist, an artist with a soul that had more depth than even he realized. He would tell me what the colors really meant. He would touch me like he had never touched skin before, his hands shaking, his pulse beating wildly. Those too blue eyes looking at me and waiting for something to happen. But nothing would. I came alive when he looked at me, like I had when we had been lovers those many years ago, but that all goes away after all the beautiful things have been slowly chipped away. We looked at each other and something lit up inside me, but then I remembered that I had lost him so long ago. Years separated us, but something brought us together that can never be explained or even possibly comprehended. Thirty years of my life had gone by. My children were almost grown. He couldn't even buy alcohol. But I was caught up in him. And when I let him go it broke our hearts. What if is now my favorite turn of phrase. And that boy that looked at me, he made me remember. He made me think about those things that were like cobwebbed skeletons buried before his time. Sadness, well, that's like everything else. His too blue eyes did something to me. And I'll never forget them. Even though they lasted like everything does, not long enough. | | |
| Day 150. If he didn't have a name I would call him just another. If his smile didn't do funny things to my insides, then I might say that I know this feeling. Special. Well, nothing is special any more. It lost its newness a long time ago. The smell of leather and rubber, it faded long before the expiration date. If his eyes didn't look like the sea then I wouldn't worry about just another time after another time. What happens between what I thought I knew and the realization that nothing ever changes, I only change my point of view, then I would of stopped crying before I began. Just another way to make myself believe that there is no real purpose. Those faded jeans I had in the seventh grade that were lost among all the things that I won't throw away, they are me. Buried beneath baggage that I don't want to move or even deal with. I just pile it in a corner until it falls on me. And then I clean it up.And then I start another pile. If he didn't have dimples that sank beneath his brown skin then maybe I could look at him the way I will always look at everyone. The next disappointment. But it's not you. It's me. I want everyone to be everything. And it's not going to happen. I didn't know that and maybe I'll never learn. Just so you know, I set you up so high that you'll fall. And then I can be disappointed again. Creating my own drama, my own heart break. You did this to me and I let you. The tragedy that I play out so well. If he didn't touch me like he could hurt me then maybe I wouldn't go looking for him. Speaking to him, listening as his eyes move from my own eyes to my mouth. I wonder what he's looking at. Do I have something there that shouldn't be? Is there something wrong? I forgot that perfection wasn't real. The movies made me think that one day it would end like that. Surprise. He says it would be better if he just died. I don't know what to say. I tell him that it wouldn't be the same without him. I don't lavish him with compliments or try to impress him with my intellect. I just listen, actually listen. I'm not waiting for my turn to talk, sometimes. If he didn't creep up behind me and stick things on my ass then maybe I'd know that this isn't really want I wanted. I wanted something else, something that had glitter and didn't have feelings. I wanted the imitation, the generic version of whatever is really real. If he wasn't real I'd probably really want him. It's a shame though. If I could call him anything it would be just another. | | |
| Day 149. Just another day, but I'm up early. The fleas have been sleeping in my bed and eating me. They itch when they bite and last night Beau and I sat in the kitchen floor and ate. Pork and beans. Popcorn. We slept beside each other. I like the smell of his breath and his old man moles. I think we're best friends. He's getting old. I can hear his bones and joints pop when he moves. I luff. Its been ten years and I'd say, although I haven't been the best to him through out the years, he's only tried to bite me once. Which is better than I can say. The other day I flipped out. Over closet doors. But it wasn't really about closet doors. It never really is about the thing you go off about. It's all the shit that builds up, the stuff you ignore and are sick to death of bitching about. Yeah, so, I went nuts. I yelled. I acted exactly like my mother. The way I never wanted to act. The way I never wanted to be. I screamed. Get the fuck out. Open this goddamn door. It was an echo, a piece of the past lodged in my cerebellum. I reacted like a puppet. I am exactly like my mother. But I apologized. Now I am ashamed of my behavior. And now I understand how my mother sees me. I don't think I'll ever grow up because she never did. She's still a seventeen year old trapped in a dying thirty-eight year old body. Ir's just a cycle. Me becoming her. Becoming everything that you dislike and never want to be. Well, here I am, not so many years later, and I am her. But the difference, I guess, is that I know I don't want to be her for the rest of my life, so I'm going to try and not do that any more. Learn from your mistakes. Because she never did. I don't feel bad for getting angry. I just should of done it in a more constructive manner. What that constructive manner is, fuck if I know. I've never seen constructive anger. Or whatever. You get mad, you scream, call someone a lying sack of shit, tell them all the things that you whisper in your head when they do something that makes you want to rip out their spinal cord and twist in around their neck, disembowel them and let their stink smear in their face. Yeah. So I screamed. Made them cry. Felt bad. For how I acted out my anger. I just wish I knew the alternative. If happiness were a bowel movement, how often would you shit? Me, probably once every two weeks, periodically changing in cycles. I'm not depressed. I just need someone new to hate. I need a new devil. Someone that can play the villain in my little mini plot drama. I create my own drama. I have to have someone to hate and I am always right. Even if I'm wrong, I'm right in knowing that I'm wrong. I will never know the extent of my own faults and even if I admit to them, I'll never fully absorb them enough to improve. I'm her devil, she's my devil. I am not a pure human being. I have my nasty little secrets. The things that I do when know one is looking. I just have a superiority complex, with her. I have to feel better than someone. It's healthy for my ego I'm told. If you could hear all the things that people say about you, what would you do? Me, personally, I'd say I'm a bit curious. But then again, some things are better left unknown. I learned that lesson. But then again, whether or not I believe, that is the difference I guess. I didn't want to know, but at the same time I keep telling myself that there is a distinct possibility that all of that shit was nothing but the havering of an incoherent brain. Me, I'm thinking a breakfast bowl. | | |
|
