Analogy

Sometimes you have to watch movies you've already seen again to notice the parts you've missed the first time. The shoes that change color. Character's expressions. The emotions they really meant to convey. Sometimes you don't see everything the first time around. Because you've read the book. Because you knew what you were expecting. Because you didn't want to be disappointed. And the fact is that sometimes you are. Sometimes the script is changed. It's not what you wanted, but the film wouldn't work any other way.


I am writing my own script. It's new. It's unfinished, and I couldn't tell you if it has a happy ending yet, but I can tell you that you're dying to read it. Because whether you love me or hate me you're reading it. You can't take your eyes off of me. Every word tastes like candy, or maybe poison, but you'll fucking lap it up. 

I did this once before in 2008

I feel like I should write something. I think it's the weather. I should be sitting on the window seat, my head leaning against the rain spattered window, looking out into the gray,  making broad statements about the state of things, or religion, or at least letting my eyes tear up listening to a man play an acoustic guitar, singing about the women he left or let leave. 


That's not what's going on here. 


The truth, if you'd like it to hear it, which no one ever really does, is that I have nothing to say. 
I did. 
I do, maybe, but no one's listening and I'm not one to let my voice compete with loud music in a bar, or that guy you fucked, didn't fuck, want to fuck, kissed on your birthday, lied to, fell in love with, thought you fell in love with, shit...do we ever listen to ourselves?


Most of all, I feel like the louder your voice is the less I care about what you have to say. So we have to break up, myself and language.
Don't call. I won't answer.

I Had A Dream

I've been thinking about scars tonight. 


Scars from acne on cheeks that you'd only notice from lying next to someone in the light, trying to figure out the mysteries their face hides so well. 
Scars from chicken pox that shouldn't have been scratched. I almost forgot about those.
Tiny ones on fingers that no one has ever noticed, whose origins have never been quite clear.
And big ones from near fatal accidents that most people knew of, and the less familiar never know how to ask about. 


I had a dream earlier this evening that my thigh was filled with what would become tiny scars. It was at first a tattoo, but then turned into to burning painful cuts, made by a razor blade. It looked like dashes, or the kind of perforated line on forms that have sections that are made for tearing away. 


I just wanted to write that down. Maybe it'll mean something some day, or maybe I'll make it mean something later. 

The Not So Back of My Mind

I don't know how to say this. Other than saying it, however it comes out. 
I wasn't sad today or tonight. 
There is paint all over my hands and my room. It took up some time. 
Now I'm crying. And I want a cigarette. 
And I realized that now when I cry I reach for a lighter instead of the phone like I used to. 
I'm just so tired of saying it. 


But I never said this...


I wouldn't have done anything differently. 
Your life scares me. For you. Not me. I'm fine. 
Please take care of yourself. 
Please ask for help. 
Please work through and don't just get around. 
I miss you, I think. 
You're as scared as I am. 
I am so fucking scared for and worried about you.
You're in danger of talking too much. 
Fuck you. But I don't mean it whole heartedly yet. 

The Reason I'm Sometimes Bad At Making Conversation

     I've been having a staring contest with this tree for the past 15 minutes. It always wins. My eyes usually start to water. Sometimes it makes me feel like I won. Sometimes it doesn't. 
     I visit this tree a lot. It's not the one I've written about before. I should give it more credit. I think it's the same tree I started this late night ritual with, but that was a long time ago. I can't be sure. Let's say it was. Full circle. It feels nicer. 
     It's on a street called Abbey. Fitting. This is kind of my church. We mirror each other, me and this tree. Tonight it's cold and so am I. It's bare, looks a little defeated, but it knows, like I do, that it'll seem prettier, more alive to others some day when the weather changes. We'll both remember how it looked before that though. We'll carry the knowledge that it'll appear dead again eventually. 
     This tree and I are close. We always find each other. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with company. We both secretly hate when company comes. This is our place, that's all. 
     Tonight I feel taller than this tree. I am above all the things I've heard and endured today. I'm towering over the emotions of others. Not because I'm better, no, not that at all. But because if I keep my feet off the ground I don't run the risk of having to run. Or, let's face it, of being trampled, knowing my track record. 
     I'd rather sit and look at this tree and its bare branches, white against the Halloween sky, trying to find the moon in my rear view mirror than pick up the phone and keep trying to fuel fires that will burn without me or not. 
     My eyes aren't burning as much as I'd like. That lump isn't in my throat. I accidentally play memories in my head like the melody of a song I really liked in high school, but don't remember the lyrics to. 
     I don't know how long I can live up in the branches of this tree, dangling my feet above the pavement. I suppose I'll come down some day. Probably a Sunday. It's always a Sunday. It feel better up here for now. Out of reach, not from your grasp but from my own. 

"Sleep. Don't weep."

     Your eyes open, but not intentionally. It's as if the night's anesthesia has been lifted, and your eyelids flutter open. They're heavy. You're midway between sleep's paralysis and waking's motion. Look through the spaces between the blinds. The sky isn't as black as you think. It's the type of sky that can mean late night or early morning. You're not sure which you'd prefer. Voices on the television are trying to sell acne treatments and quick weight loss tips. You don't have to look to know what their owners look like. Happy. Smiling. Plain haircuts and colors. Clear skin. Enthusiasm. You wish you could be them. Enthralled by walks through forests and afternoons on wooden swing sets. You hate them because you can't believe them. You can't sleep without the murmur of their voices lulling you into scarce periods of sleep.
     You long for these fleeting comas. The only useful distraction. How much can you write in a day? Paint in a day? Read in a day? Fuck in a day? Sing in a day? Speak in a day? How many times can you forget a lifetime only to remember it again when your eyes open, when your hands start working right? How long will it feel like a lump in your throat? A welling of tears that never spill over?
     Turn off the television. Lay in silence. On your right side. Then your left. Then your stomach, but never your back. Breathe. Count your breaths. Remind yourself to breathe. Tell you're brain to stop. It's time for rest. It's time to stop fighting. The silence is louder than sin. What is all this noise? This pounding? Stop breathing. 
     You knew it was your heart. You know it's always this loud. And everyone else knows it too.

This is not my best. But you've never seen my best, anyway.

     Lately, I've been watching a lot of films. Films about magic. Films about stolen things. Characters with accents and teeth that are too perfect for the lives they're portraying. I've been watching films to forget about the scenes that run through my mind on rainy Sundays, and let's face it, every day since the leaves changed color. It's your film and I've always just been watching.

     I've been sitting with my cold hands in my lap. I've kept my eyes wide open through montages of parties, dark bars, freeways, sex, old girlfriends, old friends with families you thought you wanted. Montages of your best days in vivid colors scattered between nights of illness, no sleep, and self medication. I don't cry when you're giving speeches about your past, your parents, weddings, and houses you have or will live in. I keep my eyes open while you tell stories of jackets left behind. I want to close them when I know I've missed a scene, when I watch your tongue wrap around only the parts you want me to know. I keep a straight face. I choke in private. I sit here watching, for too long, hoping maybe I'll understand when it's all over. Hoping the lights will never turn on. Hoping I never have to leave.

     I've tried to tear my eyes away from the screen more times than you'll ever know. I never wanted to be your audience. I don't want to be any one's audience. But you've got me. I paid for my ticket with more money than I had in the bank. I don't think the price means anything to you. 

     But it's all a veil. It's all a metaphor because if I had your worn face in front of mine you wouldn't know what to do with me. Because I said what I meant. Because I'm too much. Because this isn't what you're used to. Because I cared too much. I don't think you gave me a chance to speak in more than a whisper. And I'm certain I won't get that. A chance, a song, a painting, a book, a poem, a reason, a conversation, a fucking honorable mention in the margins of your journal. 

     I get a ticket to a show. A seat in the middle of rows of empty chairs once occupied by people I'll never know, and will never know about. But they left. They aren't watching anymore. They walked out. They walked away. And I can't figure out how you notice that they're gone if my seat goes unnoticed. Or why it doesn't make you feel any different in the morning. Because in all honesty I'm jealous. I want to watch only what makes me smile today, or tonight, and not give a shit about tomorrow. I want to walk out of films that have just begun, or might end badly. I want to leave before something makes me cry, or remember what feeling felt like. 

     But I am right here. Sitting in a chair no one's looking for. Thinking about heading for the door, turning on the lights, and being honest. Because honestly, I'd never walk away. And if I'm honest with myself, it's not my face, my smell, my smile, or even my fucking personality I want you to notice. 

     I just want you to know that someone stayed.