LINKS
He sits alone in the hallway, chewing his deteriorating bologna sandwich, soggy around the edges. He peels off the crust, discarding it into a pile on top of his ziplock. His hands mold the white part of the bread into balls while his feet work at the black shoe mark on the tile. He watches people pass, watching their expressions. Most are laughing, pushing at their friends, slightly baggy pants and tight boot cut jeans. Navels are bared, hair is streaked with blonde hi-lights. He sighs, mostly inwardly, though a small portion escapes through his dried lips. He goes back to molding the bread into marbles.
****
I read the first sentence and regret ever telling you that you could read this. You read line by line, picking apart my thoughts with a razorwire toothpick. I sit, picking at the hard plastic chair with my index finger. Instinctively I pull at my hoodie, trying desperately in some attempt to shroud myself. It's a stripping gesture, this brutal display of emotions. The words are rained out on the page, mixing a dreamworld with reality that you can't possibly understand. My eyes study your face, searching for some shred of emotion. You look amused by my immature musings. The blush flushing my face seems to diffuse throughout my body.
****
I slip into a black shirt and scrubs in the dark, fumbling for the strings. Leaning down in the dark, searching for clothes on the ground I try to study you through the tiny crack in the door with no luck.
****
I continue going back to these times in my mind, laying on the carpeted steps just above the Artisan, looking up at you. You were balanced over the railing three flights above me. I let you read my writings, sprawled out in 30 pages of dense writing. I read your typewritten page. I close my eyes, try to place the exact words, but they never come. I am disappointed in myself. For recording moments before, but not the paper. Not your thoughts. For not remembering. Moments don't seem so crucial when we live them. I have no picture, nothing but memory, which seems to be failing me. So I wait. Wait for you to come back, to tell me what to do like you used to. To guide me in what's right. It was a cold night and I had a buzz off vodka out of a dasani bottle. I remember running down to meet you, feet light against the blacktop. I wasn't expecting you to be there, but you already were. I guess I took too long in finding my coat. It's an independent film - girl running down the blacktop towards boy. Cracked. The vision of herself, of everything she knows. It's no longer about who knows who or what has happened. You distanced yourself from me. I wish I could go back to the stairs, back to anything.
****
8:57 on Tuesday morning. "I'll do multiple action, you do multiple makeup." "Just summarize the text." I'm listening to other people's conversations. I do it on a regular basis. Some might think it's rude to listen in but somehow it has come to be routine. So much has become routine. All these observations, compiled into notebooks, scraps of paper, stacks. "I know it's not necessary for our research...." My own thoughts are interrupted. Sometimes they mix with the words, twisting my thoughts, redirecting me.
****
She is laying face down on the sidewalk watching black bodied ants crawl across the bumpy concrete. She hears the door before it creaks open but barely moves, lifting her head only a few degrees to the right. "What are you doing?" She squints, watching his face in the dark. "Watching ants." His face between puzzled and laughing. She waits and his subtle sarcasm bites. "Mmm hm..." It's demeaning her in some way that she soon brushes aside. He sinks down onto the concrete and she rolls over on her back, watching the clouds. They don't move.
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Most of the time I feel really out of place, separate from this entire world. I end up walking through the hallways attached to my CD player, addicted to the music running through me. It takes up every part of me, every emotion of my being without knowing why.
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It hammers, twists, bursting to puncture through flesh. I curl from my current position in the fetal position into a tighter ball, bringing my knees up to my chest, pressing your eyes closed with my fingertips. It rips at me while you rest in silent dreams, the faintest hint of a smile pulling across your face. The lump in my throat grows, eyes burning without moisture. I grip your T-shirt - holding onto some reminder of you until I'm falling. I hit rock bottom fast, screaming, punching at the thickened air. It's over that fast, my head on the rocks, sand in every crevice possible. Sweat, dry mouth, stomach pains, all bring me back to reality. Shaking, my hands knead the empty blankets next to me. I am left wrecked, a broken indentation in the soft cotton.
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Damn you and your inconsistent ideas rambling, meandering through my head. Her face is stretched almost to the breaking point - fake smiles, worn in jeans, too tight skin. My finger throbs, blistered and bruised. Purple and red.
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It's different now, without you here. Somehow I've become used to your face, inches from mine... falling into the comfort zone I fear so much. I sleep during the daytime now, covered my windows with black cellophane fragmentations. You keep asking if I'm okay, I keep saying I'm fine. You keep worrying, I keep denying. The digital clock flashes eight. I'm throwing back shots in waxed Dixie cups, counting the hours until noon. There are bubbles in the bathwater, a soapy dirty film. I dream you are gone, I end up surrounded by neon lights, decked out, police officers swarming, blood. It all seems so cliche - boy meets girl... except that I met you. It wasn't some chance meeting. Later you told me I couldn't pick who I wanted to know. Your eyes are closed, eyelids flickering.
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"Look me in the eye then tell me that I'm satisfied, are you satisfied? Everything I've ever wanted, tell me what's wrong...I'm so unsatisfied, I'm so dissatisfied..." (the replacements)
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It's beginning to show. That's what scares me the most, the baggy eyes. I feel limp, lifeless, and I'm worried it will start to show. Start to show that you're wearing me down.
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The lights are on the skyline again and you refuse to drive on the grass. Lining up marbles when I can't make the combinations. I'm fucking up your night. I want to go hide in some far off corner of the world, I want to curl up in the fetal position and die but you won't let me. You're angry when I can't do it anymore, when my eyes won't let me sleep, but I can't stay awake. Pissed off that I'm not stronger but I wait until your asleep for the tears to come. It makes me feel weak. I don't want to be weak in front of you, though I already have been. I stopped fighting that night. Fighting losing battles doesn't make much sense to me anymore.
****
You keep having dreams you're betraying me but not really feeling that bad about it. I keep having dreams you are gone. You walk away and I am broken. I dream I am driving in a car with my cousin. The windows are down. I am supposed to be at school, but we will be late. Fuck it, we are free for a moment. I steal money from an old woman that cares for me. She hates me. Three dollars each day for lunch money. I don't eat lunch, but save the money, pushing it into my pockets. The old man tries and I block him with the money. I am on my stomach and he's pushing. I scream at myself to wake up, to realize this is a dream. I jolt awake and try to convince myself it is alright, that it is safe now. I know I piss you off and I just want to be alone because I cannot let you see me cry. I hold the tears in, not understanding why suddenly you are not as safe as you used to be.
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I hate how you won't listen. How my thoughts don't mean anything to you, how stupid I seem around you. I wish I were something else. I feel like a child again, wishing more than anything I was good at something athletic so my parents would love me more. You cannot understand me at all. I run out to the woods, this place of comfort. You follow me, tell me to go back indoors. I am tired of being a fucking job. I am tired of being something needing to be taken care of. I have created this hell. I cannot promise you anything. You have shaken me, your voice threatening. Illusions of safety are shattered. Only the blade remains.
****
I can no longer stay here... too tired, worn out. Body aching, emotions raw. I realize now I am alone. I cannot take this. I wish I was stronger.. for you, for everyone. It's never been about me. I feel so selfish staying here, bringing you into my hell. You cannot think this is your fault. You cannot take on this burden when it was not you. I cannot go on like this. I cannot stay here. A few more words and I'm going to go... I'll keep this up for as long as I can. You are expecting a day. Everyone thinks I am better now. I wish I was alright now. I wish I was not constantly here. I wish I could be what you deserve.
****
Music mixing. I want to get beat up. I want to be washed in blood. I want a black eye. I want to cry for another reason. I want to get mad - scream, cry, fly into a rage. I want to let go. I want to float into oblivion. I want darkness. I want to shun the light. I want to stop calorie counting. I want to film. I want to capture feet stomping, hands clasped, forehead sweat, flabby arms, laughter, anger, pain. I wish I could have taped the car, you, the woods. I wish I could bottle up happiness. Wish i could throw out pain. Wish I could blast out my eardrums, poke out my eyes, find some solution. E=MC*2. 2+2=4. The absolutes in life. All mathematical. Boy+Girl=? No answer? Real numbers? No real solution. I turned off my phone, cut of my connection, closed off my heart. No pictures. Washed your smell out of my clothes. Pink Gumby's card is still on my bed. Your number. Not your writing. This is a stageshow for everyone. Our audience. Images projected, protected. Copyright. Alcohol, painkillers, razors. Everything is too raw here. Threats. Reality mixed with dreams. I am unable to tell the difference between dreams and reality. Someday I'll fuck up too badly. A time bomb. It is ticking. Black, red based and sparks, on fire. We wait in the dark. I am alone. Your hands are molding my skin. I am clay. Not the right consistency. I am watered down, slipping away. An overturned table, covers too tight. I am cold, slippery. I am your project - community service points. If I hired you why can I not fire you? I am being so selfish. 4 beans in a row. I cannot make the combinations. You win. I give up. If I go limp will you stop being angry? If I collapse.. vault me through the flaming doors. I cannot be alive any longer. I search for some way to die. Teach me. I took the tubing to the window. Tight. Breathe deeply. Relax. Did you leave the note? Did you find a job? Did you mail the letters? Relax. Play the song on repeat. "You were right about the stars, each one is a setting sun..." I cannot rely on you any longer. Fucking up your life. You told me to shut up. You don't want to tell me I'm right. Somehow your arms are going to make me better. The tighter you squeeze the further I slip. I'm going through the strainer. Smoking your last cigarette. Holding in the smoke. The phone call comes at 3 pm. My mother does not cry. My father's eyes are downturned. Plate is broken against the linoleum. Warm from the dishwasher. You turn in your sleep. The rug is stained. I film today. Tanned skin is peeling. Light on dark. Shadows. You don't notice. I cover my scars. I waxed with duct tape. Thinking about cutting off my hair. Thinking about running. Destroying everything you loved.
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das ist nicht gut...
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Burned myself with a cigarette, vomited up gin and lemonade and lunch. Forgot about dinner again.
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Sometimes I just want to scream that you aren't fat - shake you - make you understand. We both know I can't do that. I don't know what I am supposed to be doing. I don't know how to make you understand. Fast paced world, I'm moving too slowly, still counting rooftops.
****
What determines what we remember? At times I think I remember the most mundane things, pushing important things to the back of my mind. Are the small things more important than I realize? The feel of your hand around my waist, colors, the gritty feel of the concrete, graham crackers...
****
I've gotten so beat up lately though I'm not sure exactly how I got all the bruises. Cut myself shaving a lot unintentionally, must have been kneeling on concrete because my knees are cut up a little. I have been running into things a lot lately. Not necessarily because of intoxication, more from being me.
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"Don't take things so personal" "Alright. You stop being such a fucking asshole."
****
you said you saw me, wide eyed at the podium
hands shaking, and that I looked okay.
with you it's all simple
channel changed to fuzz, volume on low
I don't speak. the room is empty
beer bottles, a copy of entertainment weekly
stained under crusted cheetos
and drowned cigarette butts
you watch, sullen eyes and bent head
eyes animated, lips, cheeks, eyelashes
still the silence is deafening
****
mapping out life on a series of streets
contained in a two mile radius, coordinates
of first kisses, sweaty palms, and two fisted fights
bloodied knees on concrete, stale pizzas
crusted plates, and piss stained mattresses
the old woman, white hair twisted into a croissant
metal shopping cart
transparent nightgown
the hole in the screen door
lets in mosquitoes in early July
****
brick bristles against my back
eyes heavy from sleep, exhaustion
lights in the distance form a small city
a congregation of lights
they are too far to be recognized
****
you smell of cheap booze and cigarettes
though you beg me to deny it
we talk too much, filling in the silences
bricks against cement we half undress
tossing aside morals, thoughts
nothing happens and you apologize
curse yourself
it's easier in the dark
to tell secrets, divulge fantasies
when the light is on the edge of the horizon
I am reminded
****
marriage isn't as binding as it seems
to promise till' death do us part
when it is the inevitable
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When I was a little girl I used to wish I could be black so that I could have an afro - perfectly styled, high cheekbones. I used to think if i was like that I could be beautiful.
I wish now I was a man. I wish I was a gay man, skinny and bony, tall, greasy brown hair, worn long in my eyes, too tight jeans, sprayed on shirts, bracelets, and a messenger bag. I would dance, rock the mike, play air guitar. I would show up half drunk, make an exit, an entrance...
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"regular people give and take love" but I'm not very regular, normal, or anything else you expect me to be.
****
My lips are freeze dried in a mass of pasta sauce and concealer. I am a Chap Stick addict, parched lips finding relief not in a bottle, but a tube of lubrication, intoxication.
Hair in spirals does not cling together in neat curls. I continue searching through fashion magazines for serums promising more than deliverable.
****
I sleep with him again. We don't make love. We never make love. This night he is not intoxicated. Coughs periodically shake his body and I begin to wonder if these cigarettes have more of an effect than both of us would like to admit. He turns his head to the right when he coughs. I wrap my arms around him, try to hold him out against the world. His fingertips explore, crossing over my stomach, neck, cheeks, eyelids. They drag over my inner thigh. Every night I expect him to take advantage of the situation. After all, he says I'm so infatuated with him. He points this out daily. Every night we are closer. He is on top of me and I can feel his erection straining against my leg. He slides off, a dance of dissidence, turns so his back is to me. He lets me hold him, grasping my hand. I have lost track of the months I have known him. Two, three, four. His lips seem to trace mind. Our first kisses no lip movement, hand pressed skin against skin. Now, like some addict, I writhe for him. We wake at 1 in the afternoon, hair an uneven word search, half smile, sleepy eyes. The silence keeps me going. He breathes in my smell - smiles. I ask him to explain but he shakes his head, half moon smile still on his face.
****
My writings are never how you would like them. Too brutal, honest. You kiss her and think of me while you're fucking. You tell me not to use that word, skimming off the top layer of the sky with sharp toothed words. I don't know if I could survive the way you want me to, with our hands intertwined, every waking moment in your presence. I feel scrutinized. I've mapped out all the pros and cons on white lined notebook paper, pasted memories on cabinets, scars turned brown against tanning skin. 2-0 in the second half, I'm blindly leading this crusade of broken instincts, caramel eyes, canned smiles.
****
your words are beating out
pompously flavored indirect liturgies
I scream out my sufferings
until my throat is raw
the wind is chafing me
sand, skin, sweat
all one song
I would take a picture
but cannot capture the silence, pain
****
When you ask if I want to fuck
do you mean do I want your fingers in me?
do I want you to run your hands down my body?
moan softly while you finger me?
curl my toes while you lick my clit?
do I want you to spread my lips?
suck my tits?
when you ask me if I want to fuck
do you mean do I want you to put your penis in me?
let you fuck me missionary style? doggie style?
do I want to suck you off? Jerk you off?
watch porn while we do it?
make porn?
when you ask if I want to fuck
do you mean do I want to bring you to an orgasm?
let you come in me?
come with you?
lay my head on your chest afterward and let you stroke my hair?
ask if it was as good for you
as it was for me?
run my fingers down your stomach?
proclaim my love?
when you ask if I want to fuck does it occur to you
that I'll be thinking about him while we fuck?
that I'll close my eyes?
that my stomach will churn?
that I'll have nightmares? flashbacks?
that I've fallen in love with another man?
that things aren't the way they used to be?
that maybe butterflies too,
fly away
because after all, people are butterflies
papillion
****
I had a dream you worked at Taco Bell
you had to wear a visor
it made you look ugly
I dreamed we stepped over bodies
of a woman - tall, thin, well dressed
scorning us for being in unauthorized area
I dreamed you got soup and I got half a sandwich
you ate up all the meat
you could, it was good chili
I kissed you and you smelled of old fish
but I still loved you
****
it is too raw, this beaded emotion
that courses through our bloodied veins
dimly lit bars and alleys you always warn me of
I have begun to stray too far
stomach twisting
my eyes droop, still open
phone rings jarring my thoughts
into blood clots
razor slips, slits
****
pleated copies of Cosmo
are worn through
fingerprint indentations waterlogged
alongside the index
****
This seems to be all I have left, this tattered box of memories lying - contents strewn - on the floor. I wanted something more but I cannot find it and I'm tired of looking. They say that we aren't supposed to give up, but I don't know what else to do. Sometimes - too often - I wonder if you take me for an idiot. I am not as far-gone as you would like to pretend. I still know what's going on around me, I just choose not to participate anymore. When they ask, tell them I got tired. No one will ask anyway, what does it matter to make up excuses no one will hear?
This, this is stupid. You, ignoring me, me playing the idiot. I'm tired of being the benefactor to all your games.
****
I'm tired of getting up every day, tired of getting online, tired of going out, tired of sleeping, tired of being awake, tired of eating (because sometimes I feel like a stomach with legs), tired of thinking (because it plagues me), tired of being alone (because no matter how much everyone tries to convince me I'm not, I really am), tired of being the only one, tired of waiting for something better to come along, tired of sex (not that I'm getting much), tired of masturbation, penetration, tired of making up songs that all suck, tired of looking in the mirror and seeing myself, tired of writing undeliverable letters to you, tired of being here (without any real desire to go elsewhere), tired of reading writings from people I will never know, listening to CDs that remind me of you, feeling like shit ("it's become so obvious, you're so oblivious to yourself"). Not so tired of razorblades.
****
Hours pass without my consent. I keep recording them. 9:23 Wednesday. Reading the book I stole from your house. You won't notice. You don't live there anymore.
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