Tuesday, December 15, 2015

The night you don't remember

I can't stop thinking of your hands, lingering around my waist and drawing wanting patterns...and these shivers echoing through my core. Oh chemical feeling, and this undeniability. And words in my voice said "Just hold me." Who was that?
You say you'll always be trying to kiss me. Just once, if there is nothing there, we will go our separate ways. No, I say. It won't be like that. You say exactly.

How long now? Cemented to your porch, and fear. You lay beside and wrapped yourself around me, I asked, who are you? Because suddenly I do not know. Our conversation is frank and clear, honesty corralled into one tiny night and you're calling me out for never having the courage of honesty before now. We both messed up. And ache, like a hazy blanket over my heart. My chest is a cloud I'm only floating on. This girl I loved, you say. Loved? I reply. I love you, you say. I love you. I messed up. 
You should have married me. I know, you say. I know that now.

Our hands somehow flit in finite spaces and it's this magnetic atomic exchange. I say hold out your hand, marry me. You tell me you don't have a ring, and I slip the rounded rope of a dog leash over your ring finger. Now you can't ever say you've never been married. 

He tells you how lucky you are. This man walking down the road says I'm beautiful and how lucky you are. You say I'm such an idiot. It's abundantly clear. And I never want you to stop touching me. And it's mine, all mine, this memory; it's surreal and it aches, like nostalgia and whiskey and laughter and loyalty. I never knew you loved me. I thought, but I never knew. You should have married me, you idiot. We would be infinitely happy now. We would smile and we would fall, because at last, at last, the emptiness would be gone. And now nothing will ever be the same. So we exist in foggy memories and haphazard meetings and we'll never get away from each other. And something about that will always, always, always. hurt.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

breeze on your cheeks

I admit, the sound of your voice feels like the dots on the wall of the house I grew up in, morphing shadows into faces. Vibrations that transport. Sickly and toxic still but I love it, wrap around it because it's dark and familiar. Little bits that make acting out seem like stranger's folly in my freedom, I wonder where the shaking stops...but not here, not in this place, where the music surrounds and greasy sweating monkeys suck away the last days of their youth, thumping club to wicked feet bumping up up and up - you make me feel at home here in the land of everlasting heartbeats. Did you follow me, the sound of a base pumping out steady punk rhythm from the days of leather jackets, buckles, spikes and sticky floors. Many years later but enter impression, sweet face, fractured in cynicism I stopped and let my eyes rest upon you. Maybe you were the worst thing to ever happen to a heart like mine, tiny veins and capillaries spread out wide to feed immortal soul, you sick crust, you vagrant, you vampire. You fed, unforgiving beast that rippled once, twice, and died, disappeared without remorse into thin air. How could you play such tender games...I split in two, pushing outwards like a hatchling from the prison of eggshell, shed my skin and tried to burn the world with my tongue of flames. I needed to watch something die. What was slain becomes the slayer, yes, a petty paradox but it's why I shine tonight. glitter glitter and who wants to bite.

Succubus, angel in red. So I trick myself, like everybody else.

Monday, November 2, 2015

i am more than my baby teeth

So I failed. Again. Over something tiny and nearly insignificant. Nearly. And I get to try again so why am I so upset? I think it's just stacking on top of each other. Crying is so graceless. Why take it so hard? I should be stronger. I feel isolated and in many ways powerless here. Selling my stuff to barely make any money. Looking at an empty bank account and trying to be strong. I could use a cushion here. I just hate not moving forward. I guess this is just the cherry on top. This is just too much, today. It's just a raw wound I guess. Tearing open a scab. Poor baby ego.

Get it together. Keep fucking going. Just keep tearing through. It will get better. And it could be so much worse. Remember your heroes. Become greater. This is part of it. This is part of growing. I just need a couple good weeks I think. Turn it around right?

Friday, October 16, 2015

primal thoughts from the blank space

I had a dream about you last night. We talked. You were you, and we met and talked about life, where I am now. You said "I thought I was doing pretty well until I met with you" like I made you feel like this life was passing you by. Well maybe, but that's what I think. In my isolated repose, where I never see you and we never speak and I speculate on shades of grey from far far away.You could be anywhere. You could be happy. But we embraced, and I felt safe. A strange whole feeling from long ago, an empty box reunited with its heart. You tossed away the dove at my neck, took my wings and safe landing with it.
We spoke in symbols, online realities and words that lose meaning now, hazy unclear flickers across the front lines of a battle you would later lose. Do you blame me? You still don't write back. I used to say you'd rear your ugly head again, but its been five years, and three without a word. I don't know if you've ever read a word I wrote for you.
Did you know, I can still draw your face, in perfect angles, the divet in your chest and the scar on your skull...how many new bits of you exist? How many demons made their mark on your soul? Do you remember me, superman? I was the one who loved you the most. But again, sink or swim. I still keep your heart in a box, hidden in a box, hidden in a drawer in a house that I live in a world where you can never find me. Is it so clean? So cut and dry? Not for the girl who writes to a dead boy. Not to the girl who converses in dreams to a ghost.

But thanks, for being there. Even if it was a dream. Thanks for caring, even just a little, about who I turned into. I will choose to believe you aren't as gone as the world says you are...We've always been a chapter too beautiful to burn.

Stains on the carpet and stains on our memories.

Friday, July 10, 2015


Somehow, I am not anyone. Just a spindley song, carried over the wind on a reedy voice. The notes that wander and grace your ears, the edge of magic lines unfold.
You stop midstep, to listen.
"Where did you come from? What are you, little fairy..."
Surround. Ghost orbit, slow motion spin. You're looking for a source that isn't here. It's the breath of soft green moss on a river bank and the smell of earth after a rain. It rises like steam from the soul of this earth untold. A cold winter kiss.
It's never enough but it's all I can give from this place, so out of sync. This weathered dimension, my cage of ice. This is the part where we embrace. This is the part where the miles wither, time springs into step. This is the part where I say, I love you so. How many times, but I love you so. I've been listening to too many opinions, and too many sad stories, and too many tall tales.
Will it ever be enough to know
you are not alone?
 it's just a song
 it's just a song.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

indirectly yours,

Here we are. Out of the dark and into the day. Ok, I'll start.
Well, it's relief I guess. You are so heavy. Heavy for me. You felt it too, and admitted as much, in the intolerable poetry that is your voice. Oxygen. The space to breathe, further and further away. Away, till your lungs fill with air and the thoughts are pushed from your head. Only then you realize you were drowning in them. There it is, a clean getaway. No ties, no calls, no checking in. There is nothing to say. No words to lift your pain. No words to tell you the answers to questions you already know the answer to. So let it be static. Let it be the white noise that fills your mind when you fall asleep. It's the wind, it's the butterflies. It's a wash.
The truth is, I'm not feeling very verbal today. Certainly not a day for writing precocious monolougues or narcisistic tangents. Mostly I just stay here in my circle, and that's fine. But sometimes I find myself humming the words to your songs; vowels and consanants that take shape within my subconsious. My litany of you.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

good mourning.

You know why I stopped listening to music? I can't hear anything really good without conjuring ghosts. I am safe in the drivel they play over the radio. Total bullshit.

You me and a receiver. Trying to swallow me whole.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

game on.

We're passing letters over time zones. Flicker, bend, screen vibrate. You and me, we're the lakehouse. Aligned in two completely different dimensions.
Here's the thing: you begot me. We're related. We're strings, and they can't be cut. Nothing so real can be severed. It's a wire. I still send to you like you send to me.
I read it and got butterflies. My heart stopped a little. Whatever it is, I've missed it. Can we keep this up forever? I got a glimpse inside, and laughed. You think you are the only lonely soul on the planet.

We are nothing without pretend. Child's play. And ready or not, here I come.

Friday, February 20, 2015

It's your world I live inside.

I think it dawned on me today that I'm never really going back. And if I push myself to let go...

You lay in my memory, pristine. I turn the pages back more times than you think, soldier boy. You're like paper left in the sun too long, bleached and warped. Tossed out, but the space you once were an echo to your existence. Oh, god. It terrifies me to think I may have to relive that pain. That anyone around me might fall down sick and leave only a trace; such a feeble testament to meaning. I am the keeper of your best years. Just when I think I'm close to forgiving, infinity...you are the space between 99 and 100.

Tick tock.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Again, to you.

Do you ever wish that
We'd met
In a field of flowering poppies?
Do you think that
maybe it make
things a whole lot different?
The truth is that
You were much lovelier
Than I've ever given you credit for.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

This healing.

To be honest, I'm not terribly sure what kind of girl I am anymore. I'm not sure where my bigger purpose is. It is so easy to inspired when the possibilities play on your fingers and their tips touch fire. It's always an adjustment, getting back to the real world. There's very little instant gratification here. Time moves a lot slower but somehow we're all aging faster, and that's fine, facing your own mortality and stuff. But I want to be bigger. 
I can't help but think I was more peaceful by your side. More centered, more spiritual. But I was clinging to grudges then that I've let go of now. It's ok to be ok. I'm not defined by my struggles, and I don't need common ground to empathize. I can transcend my past. I am happier, and more in the moment. But somehow less in tune, less connected. I'd like to change that. Thanks for showing me that side of myself. 
Three years have passed since I lost you. I wonder where you are a lot. My imagination has a tendency to go too far, and I imagine you clinging to the telephone hundreds of miles away, in some dingy carpeted hallway, memorizing my number as they take you away. Do you ever think about me? Do you ever think about the summer we spent on your couch, watching that taxi cab game show and making quesadillas and going for runs in humid air that drenched us so our clothes stuck to our skin? Do you ever think about losing charlie, or watermelon on the back porch, or fireworks on fourth of July? Sometimes I think its better to get lost in those memories than imagine you now. Or our last conversations. We were so beautifully terrible, but I think I've stopped blaming you. I lay back, breaking up with a memory. I know you came back for me, that October after I moved. I know you wandered around the streets of Atlanta in the cold until I called your parents to come find you. He never asks about any of those memories. But I never, never talk about you. He probably doesn't even know. That's not his fault. Maybe its mine. Maybe he doesn't want to know. He has healed me in ways you never knew you broke me. I'm ok now.