Sunday, October 30, 2011

These poems I wrote for school and for life...

I Quit Smoking Again (Revision)

I think I’ve heard this before,
whatever story you’re reciting,
again.

Intrigued by those wisps of smoke
dancing around your face.
The curtain you exhale blurs your dull, green eyes,
that familiar gap between your teeth,
the red hue of your tired eyelids,
your dry lips,
your smooth tongue
forming inconsequential words.

Does it ever occur to you that
we’re repeating?

But I listen,
again.
I watch you blow smoke.


Riot (Revision)

You catch crows on your tongue,
pilfer hearts from shirt pockets,
tell me to eat marginalia
because the book is too hard to digest.

I’ll rummage betwixt lines and letters,
powder my nose with an ax,
chop eyelashes to refine my perception
if you’ll pretend my tail isn’t mine.

You’ll level me
like a screwdriver molests screws.
My pockets vacant.
Black plumage stuck to my tongue.


Things I Won’t Think About Before Bed (I didn't even like that guy)

That stupid black beanie
pulled down over your ears.
It would have looked ridiculous if you weren’t so damn beautiful.
The comment I made about our matching aviator sunglasses,
and how I looked so small in the reflection.
My chest void of breath when you took them off to stare at me
with that translucent blue
that sees right through my opaque brown.
Your lips, parted in that crooked smile.
The woman’s name, etched on a banner, wrapped
around a rose.
Those classic Chuck Taylors.
Your hand on the small of my back
Or the way you didn’t look back when you finally left.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Some dream in October...

We were attached at the eyes. Held together by what felt like a string, from cornea to cornea. But it had to be some elastic membrane. It felt like a glob of mascara that gets left behind after washing off the night's makeup, poorly. 


He didn't seem to realize we were bound together this way. He didn't notice the pain it caused me when he began to tear at the fiber, using his finger tips to sever our tie. It was so effortless. My eyes watered, they didn't cry. It felt as though he was ripping the smallest piece of skin from a cuticle, only it didn't feel like that at all. 


We were separated. He walked away. I stared at myself in the mirror that was a good four inches too high. I glared at the reflection of my forehead.


I panicked. Why wasn't this an emergency to anyone else?


I blinked. 
Something changed. 


I felt as if pulling off a layer of tissue was the answer. Somehow I knew this to be the cure, and it was, for a second. 


Until the world dimmed, the colors muted. 


I screamed. 


"It's fine," someone said 


I didn't speak. I didn't cry. 

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Title. Tidal.

Wake up.
Snooze.
Wake up.
Snooze.
Brush your teeth, keep brushing.
Go to work. Make small talk with your boss. Don't make a sound. Stay quiet. Watch him play solitaire. Make a mental list about how your old boss was so much more fun than this guy. Long for conversation. Miss home.
Remember how you don't miss home, how it doesn't feel like home, how nowhere feels like home...yet.
Leave.
See a movie you've already seen. Quote all the lines. Wish it was real. Wish the last time you saw this you weren't so disctracted by that one guy. What was his phone number again? You probably shouldn't call. You won't call.
Shower instead, for the third or fourth time today.
Let the water burn.
Lay your hands heavily against your chest while the water runs down, burning your pink skin.
Let your finger tips wander.
Try to feel your heart, remind yourself that it's still there, beating furiously.
Smear the eyeliner across your face.
Try to extinguish the fire.
Keep burning.
Wrap yourself if the shower curtain and take a nap.
Wake up shivering.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Quit your bad habits.
Stop thinking so much.
Stop quoting old lovers. Stop day dreaming about the lost ones.
Breathe.
This is normal, this is too normal.