| that's not what i do |
[08 Feb 2010|06:53pm] |
someone said to me once,
"you are a poet"
and my dreadfully
needy ego was
inclined to
believe them
but i know
somewhere deep
down to the bone
that i am no
more a poet
than you
the one reading this
i am just a
secret-teller
i write down all i
have inside
i give
i heave up onto paper
my fears and desires
my grisly sinew
in the form of
hacked-up lines
lexical vomit
and if a few
people want it
that's okay
but it doesn't
make me great
|
|
| talking to strangers |
[08 Feb 2010|06:51pm] |
we spoke once
it wasn't much
but
i told you
an idea that was
only just
forming
and you
i barely knew
what a forgivably
human
thing to do
to be an open
book is to invite
disaster
i felt
like a bag
cut open
its soft
bewildered contents
making a terrible
mess
at your feet
and you
looked at it
and simply
lifted your shoulders
as if to say
so?
so i knew
you were not
someone i should
trust
because people
who don't mind
a mess
are people who
are desperate
and think
that they
can fix you
because messes
want people
so bad
and people
who want messes
want people
worse
and honestly
that shit
scares me
i knew
i had to make
a run for it
before it was
too late
i have got
to learn
to keep
my mouth
shut
|
|
| epitaph |
[26 Jan 2010|06:52pm] |
when i am dead
i will have been
since the moment
in which i succumbed to
the fear of failure
a sound we hear and
all too often listen to
not so much a voice as
a ringing
a wake-up call
to go back to sleep
i should not be blamed
but i should not be forgiven
for desires of perfection
they might say they were
caused by my mother
shooing me out of the kitchen
because she could do it faster
or maybe my brother
knowing i could never be his mother
even though i had to try
i'd like to say i'd never thought it
but my resentment never fell far
from the family tree
and i always lashed out at the ones
who tried to be comforting
even when they had shit to do
you know,
i could be at a greyhound bus station somewhere
with bloody fingernails and vodka for dinner
because at some point
it's what i'd resigned myself to
i know that's not how this ended
and i've got them to thank for that
i'd like to try at an apology
but it doesn't matter anyway
they loved me then
i can only suppose
they'll love me still
suppressed
beneath the ground
|
|
| fighterfire (part... four?) |
[30 Dec 2009|03:09pm] |
[i'm not sure how i'm going to end up stringing these all together and make it sound right. this is also in third person, unlike the other three. i tried it in first but it worked better this way. i really just like these characters i've made up. i'm not sure what this adds to the story, maybe nothing, and i might just scrap it but i really just like writing dialogue between these two.]
“Do you mind?”
Veronica turned toward her slowly, blowing smoke into her pale face.
Elise clenched her jaw. “Suppose that answers my question.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall beside her friend. “You could at least try to be kind, you know.” She gestured outward toward the partygoers, adding softly, “these… these are our people! Smart, educated, nonjudgemental –”
Snorting, Veronica put her cigarette out in a cup of something bluish. “These are your people, Elise. Your college fuckers. I simply did you a favor by coming here with you.”
“A favor! Why, I –”
“Elise!” A tall, lanky man with oversized glasses sidled up to them. He was wearing a smart tweed waistcoat and jacket. “I’m glad you came!” He looked over at Veronica and smiled. “And hello, who might you be?”
Veronica either sneered or forced a smile; it was hard to tell which. “The name’s Richie. Richie Cunningham, and I s’pose you know the Fonz here. I like your mutton chops.”
The man absentmindedly touched his reddish facial hair. “Oh – uh – thank you.”
Elise rolled her eyes. “Adam, this is Veronica. Veronica, Adam.”
Adam nodded and smiled. Veronica took out another cigarette. “Charming party,” she purred. “I assume you invited our small friend and this is your humble abode?”
“Yes,” he responded proudly. “And, uh, I hate to say this but I’d rather people not smoke in here.”
Veronica paused mid-light. “Look, kiddo, the smoke smell won’t last but a week, I promise.”
Elise closed her eyes and sighed.
“Well, uh, I’d really rather you not,” Adam said, scratching his head nervously.
“She’s not going to,” Elise said, abruptly snatching the cigarette from her friend, and giving her a stern look.
“Aw, yeah, of course not, man,” Veronica said with a pasted grin. “You march to the beat of your own drum. No drugs and all that. Cool, man.”
He looked slightly bewildered, and Elise touched his arm. “Hey, uh, we’re gonna go… get some air, okay? Be back in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, all right,” he said, with a twitchy head scratch again.
“Gotta go get that nicotine that I’m addicted to, rather,” said Veronica, as Elise dragged her away.
Once they were outside, Elise handed Veronica her cigarette. “You are being a complete asshole.”
“’Ey!” she cried over the cigarette between her lips as she clicked her lighter. “Ish jusht having shome fhun! Shoosh.”
“If you didn’t want to fucking come, you didn’t have to.”
Veronica blew smoke out her nose. “Please. I’m the one with the car.”
“I could have gotten a ride!”
“From who, Walking Neurosis back there? Can he even operate a lawnmower?”
Elise rolled her eyes. “You can’t operate a lawnmower, Veronica. And he’s not that bad.”
“I have acrylic nails, sweetheart. And yes he is. He’s a nervous freak. Just like you.”
“Well quite honestly, I’m flattered,” Elise said haughtily, hands on her hips. “I quite like Adam, and I don’t know why you don’t either, if you hang around with me so much.”
Veronica sighed. “My dear, my dear. Do I have any choice in the matter? You’re like a puppy that wandered into my yard. I can’t help but like you.” She reached out and pinched Elise’s cheeks, but Elise slapped her hand away.
“You don’t really like anyone.” Elise nearly shouted. “You hate humanity. And by extension, yourself. Don’t argue with me,” she added as Veronica opened her mouth. “You know it’s true.” She sighed heavily and kicked the concrete steps. “I’m trying to set things right – I know there is goodness in people.”
“You feel guilty,” said Veronica dully. “I knew it. And now you’ll give any motherfucker a fucking chance.”
“Not just any!” Elise cried. Someone from inside looked out the window at them, and she lowered her voice. “I really like a lot of these people. Especially Adam. They’re just trying to get by, just live, you know. He’s got no pretenses or self-righteousness. And he’s forthcoming about his faults, which is sure as hell more than you can do.”
Veronica snorted again. “Uh huh. Honey, they’re all the same.” She put both of her hands on Elise’s shoulders. “I’m only looking out for you, you’ve got to see that. There’s nobody that can be trusted. At least not immediately. We’ve got to look out for each other, for the world, that’s what that whole business was all about to start with.”
“Maybe the world doesn’t need looking out for!” Elise said with a last swift kick to the step. There was no response, so she kept going. “Maybe I don’t need looking out for, either. You thought of that?” She looked down at the dirty ground as Veronica’s cigarette hand shook visibly. “I’m going back inside.” Without a last glance she slipped through the jarred screen door and out of sight.
|
|
| hero worship |
[25 Dec 2009|03:43am] |
a measured tone
deepens
rich and dark
floats heavy
like coffee's scent
then, settled in -
a rattle of drums
exuberant strings
turn of phrase
sharp refrain
key change
a breath
a longing
once you hear it
you will know it
or you won't
a swell of sound
a searcher found
i think i love you
|
|
| twentysomething |
[16 Dec 2009|01:49am] |
i don't want to be a saint
i think you're funny when
you try to talk like one
when you're just like me
what can you do
bitterly you walk
away morals intact but
a new pack of cigarettes
in hand
as you get into your
gleaming polluter
casting stones
you peel out of the drive
|
|
| justification |
[21 Nov 2009|05:50pm] |
to be truthful
i was never anything
but a burden upon you
for all my well-chosen words
there was kicking and screaming
but at least all the blood
under my fingernails
was mine
|
|
| dirt |
[18 Nov 2009|01:34am] |
i bury myself in the past
dragging my fingers
in the warmth of it
grabbing handfuls
to spread over my eyes
its sallow light
fading to grey
each face i see is a soft sun
half-hidden by worn hands
the nails torn ragged
by yellow teeth
|
|
| of feelings and ideas (manifesto poem) |
[10 Nov 2009|01:15am] |
We will never think, feel, do, believe the same. We will never bend to any will but our own. Disagreement is, and will always be. Do not despair - it does not threaten you. I daresay it enriches our lives.
When you argue loudly, it is not the brain that gives up first, it is the ear.
We mustn't take ourselves so Goddamned Seriously. It gives us headaches. It makes the greens and blues fade, and life seem generally less beautiful, less wondrous, it makes one lifeless.
Live and let live! they say - the ever-elusive, all-encompassing they - but everyone forgets to remember that Freedom means that others have their own damn way of living and theirs is not The Way and The Truth.
Your passion for Things in Theory as well as Things on Paper does not prove you love any more than the staunch tie-choked suit-jacketed slick selfish serene Libertarian (Whatever That May Mean).
We are not our theories, our philosophies, our ideologies - as much as you may wish to believe it - and even so, our gravest mistakes do not prove us worthless.
A man may be a Socialist, a man of Ethics with a plan for Our Country - he may want Freedom and Equality and Liberty and Taxes because he cares, you see, about the People as a whole - but he is still a man, and men will turn cold and throw hearts by the wayside. A woman may be a Feminist, want to tear down those institutions that Oppress, want Freedom and Equality and Liberty and Taxes and a better world for her sex and the rest - but she is still a woman, and women will tear apart a heart with no sound and no blood to show.
It is not what you want for the millions of people you don't know, but how you care for the five you claim to love deeply that shows who you are.
We are not our theories, our philosophies, our ideologies.
We are not our view on Insert Pressing Issue Here.
We are not our screaming voices on television.
We are not what we read, what we choose to hear or see.
We are who we are when we place our arms around one another, say "I am here," and want no more.
|
|
| slacker's lament |
[04 Nov 2009|01:34am] |
what it do man
it's troublesome
there's just a lot of shit, you know
i should extrapolate
i won't
but try to forgive me if you can
i'm not foolin' man
got next to none
of the good, just bad shit, you know
i should try to abate
i won't
but try to forgive me if you can
|
|
| summer thieves |
[10 Oct 2009|01:28am] |
autumn loomed
i lamented my troubles
long days and angry work
& was it she
who was yours now?
seems silly how i cried
in the hallway
the shadows would grow
i feared they'd take us
when you spoke of death
i was scalding glass
in suddenly cold water
i was small
& remarkably callous
july seemed so unforgiving
and then it was gone
i'm sorry
|
|
| february |
[01 Oct 2009|12:42am] |
everything in february
is fucking awful
everything is freezing
nights are black and fragile
steps in the dark are sparkling snaps
against ear-ringing numbness
everything is a killer
the sun does not warm
the hardened earth over the
graves of men who probably died
in february
kicking at ice, spitting at spring
who won't show up already
everything breaks and everything
snakes its way between your fingers
and laughs in your face
and you can stomp the frost all you like
break icicles with bare red hands
scream up into the blinding blue
eyes watering, breath steaming
but fucking february
is going to come again
next year
|
|
| men lose their minds |
[16 Sep 2009|12:49am] |
i read about a study
(forty males and forty females
seven minutes "chatting")
that said when confronted
with a beautiful woman
men would forget their addresses
because they are reproductively focused
and women would give
no pause to a man
who was attractive
because they pay more attention
to factors like wealth, youth, and kindness
what am i to gather from this information
but that all there is
is fucking
men fuck for fucking
women fuck for something
i fucking hate you all
|
|
| fighterfire |
[06 Aug 2009|06:20pm] |
III.
I returned home from bartending to find that Elise had cleaned the entire apartment without warning. I was thoroughly pissed, but then again, I had been pissed for a while already.
"What the fuck is this?" I demanded, throwing my bag down in a vacant chair. She reached for it and I slapped her hand away.
"Cleanliness," said Elise in that prissy do-gooder voice she had sometimes. When she didn't have her foot in her mouth. Or more unsanitary objects, like those chubby fingers of hers, ripping off dirty fingernails with her uneven teeth.
I picked up my bag and sat down in the chair. "You know I save the cleaning for Boring Sundays." I tried to make my voice sound hurt and resentful, partly because I knew I would fail.
Elise shrugged. "I wasn't up to anything, so I thought I'd busy myself." She straightened a blanket on the couch, and then turned to me, her hands folded atop her pudgy front. "I'll admit, I was upset, as well."
I combed my long hair with my fingernails idly, and considered her. "What about?"
"Well... I just... things have been a little... strained, haven't they?"
I'd come to learn in my time with her that Elise was an absolute master of understatements. No one will ever top her. Having been used to this for quite a while, and the inane babble that generally follows, I got up to get a drink from the kitchen. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," I said as sarcastically as my voice could manage. After rummaging in the fridge for a moment, I found an unopened can of beer.
Elise sighed. I'm not sure I heard it, but I'm sure she did it anyhow. "Well yes, it's obvious," she said, sounding flustered. "Isn't it. But if it's so obvious why have you not addressed it? Is it really because I said I didn't want to burn hotels down? Because I really don't think that's out of line!"
I walked back into the living room, beer in hand, chipped nail from opening said beer in the other. "Mon petit Elise!" I said with a jaunty laugh. "I thought we were above such things. I am not angry at you." I sipped my beer delicately before adding, "I am disappointed."
"Veronica!" she exclaimed. "Please! I just - the idea... I don't know. I've never committed a crime in my life, you can't blame me for not-"
I held my hand up. "This is exactly the kind of thing I didn't want to happen. You know I can't stand it when you whine so."
The frumpy form in front of me seemed to puff up slightly like an affronted betta fish. "This is pointless," she spat at me. "You're such a bitch. You think everything is beneath you. We go back and forth in this ridiculous two-way monologue - I'm the only one who's really talking."
I turned on the TV, and she blabbered on a bit more, then stormed out. I had no patience for her dramatics, and she knew as much. Still, I couldn't blame her for leaving. As undesirable as youth may find it, even I know there's something to be said for facing a problem.
The game show host spun a wheel, and there was a persistent ticking beneath the wave of the crowd's excited shouts.
What was bothering me most was that Elise was the one that had the idea in the first place. Well... she was the one who'd mentioned it, anyway. It was my idea to put it into action. I felt the tiniest bit betrayed by her. I'd agreed wholeheartedly to take on the task, and all for her.
I remembered the look on her face when she showed up at the apartment, the wide, terrified young eyes, mussed hair, bleeding lip. The top buttons of her dress had been popped off, there were bruises on her wrists. The rage inside me had been unbelievable. The fact that someone could do something so vicious, so cruel, to someone as gracious and loving as Elise was unfathomable. Hide her books because she's annoying, yes. But hurt her in any way, that was plainly unforgivable. And she deserved justice that she wouldn't receive.
Maybe she had forgotten that night. The way she'd felt, finding there was an unknowing brotherhood of horrible men that thought nothing of hurting women like her. Weak, ugly women. The kind who feel responsible. Women like me, not really women at all. But I could fight them off at least. I had their strength. Elise had nothing, no defense. It frightened me, perhaps even more so than it frightened her. I chose this gender, yet I reaped the benefits of the other. Elise did not have that luxury.
Why should a woman have to live that way? Men go to parties and have fun, they never need to be on their guard, never have to worry or be afraid that someone might hurt them.
I fell asleep with these thoughts in my mind, and when I awoke an hour or so later, Elise was home. She was sitting on the couch opposite me, engaged in a book on psychology, drinking a vodka tonic. When she saw me stir, she looked up. "Veronica? You awake?"
"Yeah," I mumbled. I sat upright and tried to fix my hair.
"Look," said Elise, setting her book aside, "I felt badly for what we were doing because... Well, we wanted to do this because of...what happened. And that was not the fault of all men, merely a few awful men, and we shouldn't take it out on anyone else."
I started to speak but she hushed me.
"No, listen... Even so." She took a deep breath and I could tell she was struggling. "If we are completely innocent. You know, even if we are technically baiting them, we've got to not do anything that'll rightfully provoke them. They'll still likely try to do something horrible to you. And... they'll deserve it." She paused. "And I'll get my revenge without...technically, without hurting the innocent."
I almost said, What about the other people in the buildings? But I knew that would ruin it, that even if it was something she was ignoring rather than something she'd overlooked, she would not be able to go though with any of this. And I was excited. I wanted this to happen, and it looked like I'd convinced her. The lure of justice, of some kind of power was too much for even Elise to turn away from.
Smiling, I opened my pack of cigarettes and handed one to her.
I struck a match to light her cigarette. As we leaned together, we both looked at the flame, burning the white circular paper edge to an unevenly curled brown-black. Our eyes met each other's orange-lit faces in the dark room. I knew her wet eyes were reddish, and her face blotchy and tear stained, but you couldn't tell. The light of the flame melted it all away, and her features were starkly shadowed, her eyes bright. The match went out, and we kept staring blindly in the dark, the smell of sulfur in the dull, heavy air.
|
|
| deadsleeper |
[22 Jul 2009|11:45pm] |
in the morning, i lie still so
as not to disturb the corpse
he lays beside me, with our friend silence
and i am staring at the floor
when the deceased wakes, i don't want to
he is persistent as the end
he gets up only to numb his life away
see, we are all as good as dead
in the morning, i cry for nothing
i think i am going insane
he isn't here whether he is here or gone
and cannot guess the source of pain
if i were to fight, he wouldn't want to
he is as passive as the end
it takes forever, it goes so slowly
we are all as good as dead
|
|
| fighterfire |
[15 Jul 2009|03:30am] |
II.
All of Veronica's bony fingers on her right hand gripped the steering wheel, occasionally fluttering as if she were going to let go. As per usual, her left hand held a half-smoked Pall Mall. Her day pack had been extinguished. This was the first one of the night, and certainly not the last.
"Did you make sure everything is in order?" she barked at me in that commanding way she had about her, and I nearly jumped.
"Yes," I responded, trying to sound as cool and casual as she always was, but my voice came out a little squeaky. I smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt.
She nodded, her eyes invisible behind large, dark sunglasses. Suddenly her dark red lips cracked an easy smile. "I always ask, Elise. You know we can't afford to fuck anything up." She turned to me briefly, her grin still in place, but this time forced as a wax figure's.
I nodded back. "Yeah. I know." I adjusted my glasses and stared down at my careworn penny loafers. It was becoming increasingly difficult to talk easily with Veronica, most of all when we were on "missions". I'd never confide it in her, but I was beginning to wish we'd never started this in the first place. All this junk about getting the world back for our mistreatment and sorrow... I tried to imagine it as a noble pursuit, but I supposed my conscience was getting the best of me.
"Quiet lately, Elise," Veronica said lightly, although I knew this to be a command.
"Didn't mean to be."
"Well, stop it. You know it bothers me."
"Yeah, sorry."
Veronica took a great deal of air through her nostrils before breathing in some more cigarette smoke. I knew the orange ember that glowed in the falling darkness was racing its way to the filter, but I didn't know when it would get there.
I waited in my position outside tonight's choice of bar. No matter which, they are all the same. And the people outside all look the same. I always feel so strange standing there. I don't smoke much but I have in the past smoked nearly a whole pack while I was waiting. Every once and again I will meet some stranger who will try to bum one or a light. No one ever offers one to me like they do to the slim, slight girls fumbling with their handbags, cursing to their girlfriends about their lack. I would feel angry about it, I used to feel angry about it, but I know that we're both being used for different things. What they're using me for is much less degrading in my opinion.
Sometimes I don't get looked at all, sometimes I am virtually invisible. This was one of those nights. My long black hair and dark green dress melted into the darkness, and my pale mug was lost as one of the many unfortunate sights outside a bar on a bad side of town, much like graffiti or vomit. You tend not to notice, if you are not a first time patron.
I was almost out of cigarettes when I saw a flash of blonde hair. The man was stumbling out onto the sidewalk, laughing gleefully, Veronica's thin arm linked in his. This was not one of her more awful looking victims, and I could tell by Veronica's face that she thought so too. Her usual grim, forced smile was replaced by her most smug, delighted, light-the-place-up one, and she was laughing along with the man. She stole a glance at me with eyes I knew were a shocking blue although obscured by shadows. I nodded and she turned back to him. I began to follow, slowly. I smoked because it was something to do. The usual excuses. I'd actually been trying to quit, but when you hang around Veronica it's virtually impossible.
The little motel he'd led her to was a few blocks down. It was seedier than most, and shabby, rather old. Which is all the better for us. Old buildings come down faster. Also it's much easier to blame it on, you know, something other than arson.
I went round the back of the building and surveyed my possibilities. I noted after a while a hole in one of the windows on the first floor. Piece of cake. I pulled a wad of newspaper out of my bag, and a small bottle of lighter fluid. I doused the wad and stuck it through the hole, then rolled up a thick bit of newspaper, lit it with my lighter and poked it through as well. I did this a couple more times until I could smell my smoky success. I gaped at my watch, tapped my feet nervously, and started walking at a good pace for a couple blocks. I heard an obnoxious wolf-whistle behind me. I turned to see Veronica walking gingerly toward me in her red patent heels while my head screamed at me anxiously, a chorus of panic:
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
"Why didn't you wait?" she hissed at me when she had caught up and we began walking quickly together.
"I had a bad feeling about this one," I said softly.
Sirens. We both heard them. Veronica pursed her lips, and said nothing until we reached the car.
She took off sharply, before I'd even reached for my seat belt. I knew I'd upset her, there was no point in asking about it. I didn't quite know what to say.
Luckily, she started for me.
"I can't believe," she said slowly, calmly, "that you would have left me behind."
"I wouldn't have done!" I protested quickly. "I'd have gone back if you hadn't-"
"And by then it would be too late!" She breathed heavily out of her nose, her plastic chest rising and falling. "Light me a cigarette."
I did as I was told, and she took it without a word. She smoked in silence for what seemed like eternity. Then, she spoke, and when she did, her voice was brittle as her bones and quieter than I'd ever heard it before.
"Look, it's clear, you know as well as I know that you can't do this without me. So I'd rather not be fucking sacrificed, thank you ever-so-fucking much, if only so the mission can continue." She paused, and seemed to consider whether or not to say anything else, then did one of her big sighs. "I can't very well fucking do this without you, Elise."
I was shocked. For Veronica, that was as good as saying she loved me.
"I understand," I said. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"You're damned right it won't," she snapped, drumming her French manicure on the steering wheel. In the following silence, I watched the lights pass above like large lightning bugs. I wondered how much longer I could do this. To leave now would be like committing suicide. Veronica would either kill me or turn me in. She was a dangerous friend, but she'd be a downright frightening enemy. Her voice startled me. "As much as I'd like to, you know. Be sacrificed, I mean. Just to be like, a Misanthropic Transsexual Jesus or something. But hell if my blood will save this shit fucking world." Her finished cigarette left her hand, and hit the street with a small explosion of orange sparks, and she gave a soft, raspy laugh. "We're just saving it with something else, I suppose."
She smiled almost cruelly and I stared at her with a mixture of fear and awe.
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| my suicide |
[11 Jul 2009|01:04am] |
Sarah Davis
Personal Essay
Mrs. Childress
My Suicide
The sunrise is beautiful on this morning. I've been up for hours, smoking on the back porch, planning my suicide. Just me and the birds, taking in the sights and sounds in the faint light and cool comfort of dawn. I thought about a sweater briefly but decided it might be better to tough it out sleeveless. There was a nice looking bird I'd liked to have drawn, but it flew away any time I thought to get some paper. It couldn't stay still for long, and I understood. As a child, my greatest desire was to fly - all of us, it seemed, we all wanted the same things at first. I would have discussed these things with someone but I thought it better to keep my thoughts close. They were all I had left, really.
I had a fleeting thought earlier: my parents might miss me.
They had been together since high school. Neither one had ever been with anyone else. I asked my father once when I was young if he had ever thought about dating anyone besides my mother.
"No," he said, flipping hamburgers on the grill with his large metal spatula. "She's the only one for me."
"How do you know that?" I asked. "You might've gotten along better with someone else you never got to know."
He smiled and chuckled slightly in that way men do when they're about to tell you something they think is fabulously interesting or something obvious women would never notice. "There was a girl I knew that read all the same comic books I did. I could talk to her for hours. I'm sure there are lots of girls like that, but you'd never want to sleep with them, would you?"
"Why not?" I asked in earnest.
He laughed at me in a way I did not like, and I never spoke to him of such things again. And I never really looked at their happy marriage the same way, either.
What if I was not beautiful enough? I thought. Would I not be permitted to live such a life?
Though I suppose my worst fear was quelled, as many men would come to find me beautiful. However, those many men always left.
When the last one drove me home for the last time, my mother's voice kept repeating in my head:
Life is full of suffering. You should be glad you haven't seen the worst of it.
She said that to me on the way home from my friend Sandra's dad's funeral. It was true, and I was glad then, and I'm still glad now. But this was the worst I'd been subjected to thus far, and I've got to say, it felt pretty damn bad.
That morning I awoke to find him sitting up in bed, staring down at me as if he had been trying to wake me up with his eyes.
"Hey," I said with a yawn. His face was solemn, and he did not reply, he just continued to stare. I was unnerved but I tried to act like I didn't think anything was wrong. "What's with you?" I asked casually. I heard my voice waver.
"I've been doing some thinking," he said softly. I might've imagined it, but it looked a little like he'd been crying. I'd never seen him cry. Not ever. I supposed that was a male thing. Showing signs of weakness, humanity... it's uncalled for.
"Thinking?" I repeated.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I never wanted this to happen, and I... I want you to know how difficult this is for me."
I smiled awkwardly and sat up. "Look, whatever happened, it's not a big deal. Let's go get some breakfast, we'll talk it over." I kissed his cheek and turned to get out of bed when he grabbed my shoulder.
"Sarah, I don't know how else to say this. I can't... be with you anymore."
I frowned. "What?"
He continued, and I lost all notion of time and where I was. Someone else... you're sorry... And before I knew it, me and my stuff were in his green sedan, heading back to my apartment together for the last time. Someone else... you're sorry.
And you know, he looked really, genuinely sorry.
That was the only time I was really saddened by it all. He was very kind, perhaps the kindest man I'd ever met. He seemed to love me for more than my exterior, which I always found most peculiarly wonderful. Plus he was twenty-three and had a car.
We stayed pretty good friends, and I went out with him and his girlfriend once. It was a double date with another friend of his he thought I might like. Fat chance, he was quite boring and stiff. The girl my old boyfriend-now friend had fallen in love with was short, squat, and had long dirty blonde hair and a decidedly squirrel-like face. He did not seem much more taken with her than me. However I came to find that they were engaged. Engaged! Can you imagine.
I think toward the end of the night when my date and I were alone, he had noticed my interest, and he did not try to charm me any further. Instead, he said, "I understand your confusion." Just like that. He knew what I was thinking of - amazing, right? What a sharp guy, truly.
"Yeah, well..." I was unsure of what to respond.
"Men often do not want beautiful wives," he said, like a wise advisor instead of a date. "Because beautiful wives tend to leave."
I thought about this statement for a long time afterward.
Now I sit here, waiting for the perfect moment for my demise. People are far too complex for my liking. Why can't they be like the birds? I hear some of them mate for life. Then again, I'm not sure what begins such a relationship. Is it beauty, or do they just know? Instinct or whatever?
I thought I'd call my friends but there's no point, is there, they'd just try to stop me.
God, by this point I'm not even sure I want to do this.
Might as well, I mean, I can't win.
Right?
Okay, I guess this is just silly. I'm just doing this because everyone else was writing about their attempted suicides and childhood abuse. Look at me, I'm eighteen years old and I've never had anything remotely horrible happen to me. I've never even thought about killing myself. God, who would? I'm a beautiful girl with talent and youth and a good chunk of life ahead of me. I mean, I didn't lie to you about any of the stuff that happened, but none of that stuff made me think the world was awful and I should check out, you know? So what if the only man I've ever loved fell for somebody as ugly as original sin, and I have to sit by and smile about it because I'm the great friend?! So what if every day I have to see them tortures me so deeply I become so evil when I'm around her that I've thought of a hundred and twenty ways to kill her in her sleep?
You know what? Fuck this! I am going to kill myself! This shit fucking sucks!
Grade: C
Teacher's comments: A little lengthy.
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| fighterfire |
[07 Jul 2009|02:34am] |
I.
"A lady like you needs protecting, I'll wrangle."
The amount of whiskey on his breath was staggering, and I coughed in spite of myself as he breathed close to my rouged cheekbone. Lust was indisguisable in his state. And how could anyone blame him? I'd charmed him to pieces by just sitting near him. He was a worthless piece of shit.
I sipped my vodka tonic gingerly, and pulled out another cigarette. "Should I take this one outside?" I purred without looking at him. His fingers were toying slightly with strands of my luxurious blonde extensions now and I thought I might be sick before I reminded myself of the payoff.
"Yeah, sure," he said, with a look on his ugly mug that clearly said he'd won. Oh, yes. He'd won, all right. I held my head high and gathered my shit. As he led the way out of the crowded bar, I noticed the bald patch on the back of his head. I mean, there are always exceptions, but this time I'd say not. Twenty-nine, my ass. He probably had a wife and kids at home. Good for them. They deserved better than this fuck. I felt immediate remorse for anyone who has shared his bed or his genes. He was mumbling something... fucking shut up, goddamn it. This one was particularly grotesque, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.
I sucked on my cigarette like it was my lifeblood as he put his arm around me and we walked a ways down the street. "I don't live too far," he said. "We don't have to take a cab."
"Sure," I said. "Whatever." I'd rather not be in a closed space with the fucker, anyway; the bar was bad enough. As we walked, I turned around and made sure Elise was following close enough. I saw her squat body shuffling at a good pace behind us, and nodded slightly toward her. She gave me a thumbs up and I smiled over at what's-his-name. He was talking about something I'm sure he thought would impress me, but I wasn't listening a bit to anything but the clicking of my heels on wet concrete and concentrating on the sweet smell of fire.
We finally got to his place and he started kissing me, the worst drunken sloppy kisses imaginable. A dog would have been better. I tried my hardest not to push him away as his bluish liver lips made their way down my neck. "You don't mind if I smoke one more, do you?" I asked. He was too busy playing leech on my collarbone to care. I looked at the digital clock on the dresser. 2:23. I had probably five more minutes to make my way out. Luckily they're never too interested in foreplay, drunks. Before too long his hand crawled up my miniskirt like a giant spider, and equally as frightened when he found his prey to be, in fact, the predator. This one's face was especially horrified. It wasn't angry horrified though, like some of them. I figured he'd be a pussy. I hoped he wouldn't take any punches like some of them, because I wasn't prepared for this guy to be any sort of threat. I was a whole foot taller than him, I'd guess, and I supposed I could take him if things got out of hand. He just kept staring in horror at my gorgeous face. He could hardly imagine. I loved that part.
"I suppose I'll be going," I said softly. My favorite line. This was the thrill. This, coupled with the knowledge of what was about to occur. I picked up my handbag and walked toward the door. He still stood there, mouth agape. Suddenly he began to scream, and placed his head in his hands. I knew he was one of the soft ones.
This was my cue. I swished out the exit, leaving my smoldering cigarette behind on the floor.
I swore I started to smell smoke while on the elevator, and I revelled in familiar, giddy excitement. What Elise and I were doing was just, it was right, it was beautiful. I met her outside, and grabbed her hands, invisibly stained with the blood of our enemies.
We made our way back to the car and stopped at Krispy Kreme before going home. Elise's thighs love her for it, and as for me, well, I never gain a pound. After these excursions we could find peace to sleep. To dream of marvelous flames licking clean the abhorrent acts of our fellow humans, of a new world.
Of men reduced to ashes.
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| writer's block bullshit |
[30 Jun 2009|12:35am] |
have it out for me, you do
i'm jaded and bitter like you
and i'm meaningless too.
you talk like angels
and you make me want to pray
to your eyes, black emeralds
in the very barely dawn
and i walk on eggshells
in this cocoon you've spun.
i can barely breathe as wings
beat against my lungs.
i love your languid whispers,
your precious language,
fabulous as drag queens, kitten,
i lap it up like milk.
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| ten things you should know since you've been gone |
[24 May 2009|01:57am] |
1.
i was always astounded by the amount of blood inside the human body.
i'd witnessed three deaths in my short (thirty year) life. one was a guy on the sidewalk at three in the morning last november. one was my mother after my kid brother overdosed on heroin. the remaining one was you.
i couldn't believe you'd do it a mere three days before my birthday.
2.
at 3:06 in the afternoon, as i walked the icy street where your mother lived with only a flannel shirt on, i found a cassette tape on the ground. it was real beat up but i picked it up anyway, and upon finding that the tape itself was in decent condition, i pocketed it.
i knocked hesitantly on her mother's red front door. i read somewhere that was a sign of welcome a long time ago. a red front door, that is. she slammed the door almost immediately after answering it. i barely got a look at what her worn and tired face looked like. i couldn't really tell if she'd been crying. of course she had. that's what the grieving do, don't they. i trudged through the unshoveled snow on her sidewalk. i just thought it had been the right thing to do. i think i fell, but i bloodied up my hand pretty bad on icy gravel. i don't remember if i fell.
3.
my birthday came and went without incident, as was to be expected. i did not have a cake, as you not there to celebrate with me, and i didn't see the point of making a cake for myself. i called in sick to work and watched jerry springer and maury and everything. and i laughed. real hard. i laughed too much and i got kind of sick. i puked in the kitchen sink and then i sat down on the linoleum and laughed at the dirt. i felt something in my pocket and it was the cassette. i pulled it out and put it in the player.
i woke up in the armchair by the fake palm. when i looked up i saw a spider spinning its web between two of the leaves. it wasn't a big one so i didn't freak out or anything. it was kind of greyish and looked like the sky sometimes does when it's cloudy and the sun sets. i thought it was pretty, and i opened the windows so that flies would come in and feed it. i felt responsible. i forgot it was winter though. that spider's going to die. i walked over to the tape player and started the tape up again. it was some album i'd never heard, but i thought we should get acquainted. the man's voice was raspy and calm, and i liked feeling it reverberate through my bones when i had it up loud enough. it was nice hearing something.
4.
the funeral was saturday. it was at a church at your mother's insistence, even though i told her you never attended church, ever. and yeah, she was kind of pissed like you thought she'd be. it was nice i guess. they all talked about how fantastic you were for a couple of hours. it was some great bullshit you would have laughed at, i know. nothing was genuine and it was all very strange. i laughed quietly about it and your grandmother glared at me with her glass eye and i laughed so hard they had to escort me out of there.
i went to look at your body in the casket later and they had mussed up your face bad with a bunch of cakey makeup. i couldn't laugh at that though, that kind of pissed me off. you were my girlfriend, not some cheap hooker. i guess i just didn't want to think about you when i listened to the police is all. i told you i was sorry for the shitty day, knowing you couldn't hear me. but it felt like when i used to talk to you when you were asleep, so i did it anyway, because it felt natural. it felt better than anything had in the past few days.
5.
i played the tape when i got home from the funeral. that's all i really did for the next few days. i knew those songs inside and out. i didn't care who it was, i just knew he understood everything. and you would have understood too. i wish you could have heard it when you were around. i don't know if things would have gone down the way they did. i think it was fate that i found it on the road. it was like god knew i needed it. i know that's kind of silly for an atheist to say. but i never said i'm always right about everything i believe.
i feel pretty calm most the time. the tape helps with that some. but i punched the wall the other day, and i felt better than i had in a while. i haven't really eaten or slept in days. unhealthy, i know. i just haven't been feeling it. i tried to make spaghetti but it all stuck to the bottom of the pan, and i ended up having to throw it out.
6.
i fucked everything up pretty bad, didn't i?
7.
forgiveness is important. the tape knows this. i hope you know it. i hope you do.
everyone is hoping i will kill myself too. they think i should. i think they should stop thinking about me.
8.
i woke up yesterday morning and the spider was dead. it prompted me to clean the house up finally. the place looked pretty good when i was done. you would have been proud. your mother called me, too. she was crying and she said she was sorry for blaming everything on me. i told her i wasn't sorry and hung up. i got clumsy and i broke your vase. i'm real sorry. but you're not using it anymore, so what's it to you? it was ugly anyway. i remember we both said that. you got it from your aunt. we knew it was one of those regifting things. because she didn't want it and all. nobody wanted it. you said, "who would want something that ugly?" and then you started to cry.
i really love you a lot.
9.
today i woke up and i listened to the tape. i'd heard the first song a million times at least. it's this real nice little thing about, well it's hard to explain. like, not fucking around, you know? well, i listened to it while i was waiting for my bread to toast and i felt myself crying. it was the strangest thing, but i'm glad it happened. i can tell my worrying friends that i am in fact human. and i guess i'm grieving now for real. for everybody.
even with that happening, i feel like less of a mess than i used to be.
10.
i walked back to your mother's house this afternoon. i talked about the tape and she didn't understand. but she seemed a lot kinder than she'd been in the past. i didn't say much but she sure said a lot. and she cried. and she does sound like morrissey like you said she always did. i finally heard it.
when i left, i found the spot where i'd picked up the tape. i pulled it out of my pocket and set it down for another to find it. i thought it was important for the tape to move on to someone else who needed it. as i walked away, i looked back to make sure it was safe. i hoped it would make it into the right hands. everything happens for a reason. that's what my mother always used to say. i thought it was bullshit for a while but now? i don't know. you're without pain. it's what i always wanted for you but didn't know how to make it happen. i think that we'll all be all right in one way or another.
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