Poem. Thought. Observation.

Poem: Written on my leg in the dark
A love that lasts, not lingers.
That is not simple.
That shakes you.
That doesn't knock you down,
but eases your unsteady feet off the ground

I want that. To be honest, the wanna-be princess inside every human doomed to live a life constantly derailed with estrogen emotions wants that.

Someone to give a shit.

Magic 8

     I think we're constantly searching for answers that don't exist yet. That has to be why there's a Magic 8 Ball online. So at the push of a button we can see some predetermined answer, and if we don't like it, we push again.
     We push too hard sometimes. We push so we don't fall apart. We push the pieces we want to fit into puzzles they weren't meant for. We push through. We push for. We push ourselves around. We are so consumed with the end, the goal, that we lose sight of all the beautiful things quietly residing in the deepest places of our hearts. Wrapped safely in memories of cigarettes, swimming pools, dry heat.
     Some things that are old are dissolving. Some things that are old are going through a metamorphosis we could have predicted had we been paying more attention. And they will grow, they will turn into things more real than we have known. They will be tangible.
     We will be patient.
     We will submerge ourselves, or perhaps test the water with our fingertips. We'll feel the heat on our faces slowly warm the chill in our hearts.
     And it will all be ok.

There's a Reason

This is dedicated to someone, but I don't like to name names on the Internet...



      He slipped his shoes off, leaving his socks on, as he sank back into his chair. Closing his eyes while he sipped on another beer, he tipped his head back to enjoy the last song on side B. He didn’t notice she was watching him, lying backwards in his bed, making a mental note of this accidental smile.
     “That fucking candle went out again,” he said trying to cool the wax before it ruined the wick.
     “What an asshole,” she replied with ambivalence. One less candle wouldn’t make a difference.
The digits on the clock were increasing. The shots, and beer, and cocktails made the time seem irrelevant. The music wasn’t stopping. The laughing grew louder, more uncontrollable, their voices hoarse from conversation. What would have usually been a night spent respectfully annihilating a pack of cigarettes turned into a longing for a life in the 1970’s, holey t-shirts, beaded doorways, and weed.
     “But then the house would smell like weed.”
     “But that’s why we’d get incense.” She prided herself on fine-tuning the details.

      As the sun threatened the open window, the noise grew faint. The musicians sang deeper. Their faces closer as he whispered information in her ear she’d never understand. Their heavy eyelids fighting sleep, fighting tomorrow. She pulled the blanket over their heads; they breathed each other’s air.
     “I’m dead,” she said.
     “You’re not dead,” he mumbled as he lazily tried to revive her.
     “What if I just died every time someone said something I didn’t like?,” She mumbled back, her face glistening with sweat.
     “What if you could decide to just stop breathing?”
      “What if you actually had control over anything?
They turned to face each other, in complete darkness; searching for eyes they had no chance of finding. Without a word spoken they let out a breath.

      Undoubtedly some friend would find them; both lifeless, only heads covered by a blanket in the summer sun. The candles would have burned out, the record playing an unwavering static. There would be rumors. A story. A great mystery like the kind she used to love. They’d be a mystery. A present day Mulder and Scully who’d succumb to their own desire to experience the unknown. But those closest to them would know, they'd done something original. Together they just stopped submitting to the most natural obligation. Freeing themselves from the decisions that the rest of us are plagued with. Letting that night remain eternal.

 

The Masses

I don't cry. I'm still faking smiles. My eyes don't focus. My hands shake. I'm still not hungry. I am even. But I am not numb. My brain is screaming, laughing, crying, kicking, howling behind a soundproof glass window of medication. I know this noise is there, but I can't hear it all the time. I hear it when I wake up in the morning. Or the middle of the night. I hear it when I'm driving for too long. I hear it when I'm alone while the sun sets.
Nothing can be tied up.
Nothing can be finished.
Just ignored.
Ignore each other.
Ignore our conscience. 
Ignore the heart you stole
And the one you forgot you had.

Defective

I’m driving.

            I’m always driving. I prefer it after midnight. My hand is limp on the steering wheel and my foot is only resting on the gas. I have no direction. Something about streetlights, or headlights, or break lights, or starlight makes me think of every moment of my life simultaneously; like one of those montages in a movie. I’m on some street stopping briefly because a sign told me to. A new song by an old band is playing and it happens.

            They come all at once, not sorted by time or person. Maybe sorted by a feeling I vaguely remember. It was important once I know, but I don’t know how to tell what is or will be important anymore. The drums kick in and it all sounds familiar.

I’m remembering a soft hand squeezing mine in a house I’ll probably never return to; its fingers lacing through mine. I acted like I didn’t care, but it was the first hand I let roam over mine in years. The same soft hand is wrapped around my waist, its owner is wrapped around me and I can’t catch my breath or quiet the sounds coming out of my mouth.

            Then it’s a rough hand pushing down on my pelvis and the same sounds are escaping me. My hands claw for sheets and air. It hurts and it’s fine and it was love. It was love, I’m sure, but it doesn’t feel like I want. I was broken. That’s what we decided.    

            I’m turning into a neighborhood I’ve only been in to turn around and head back the way I came. There was a time I accidentally lit a trashcan on fire with a cigarette that wasn’t done burning. I never leave the cherry unattended anymore. All the nights in the park on that cold metal bench blur together. Every time feels like an epiphany and the right time to have one. Whether it’s the warmth of the tea and my favorite sweatshirt or the sound of her voice when she convinces me I’m not a complete failure, I don’t know. When she leaves it all feels the same and what was said those nights only come back when the streetlights are flickering.

            I shared so many nights with a pair of tired green eyes and cigarette smoke; in the garage, on curbs, in parking lots, in the back of that old truck, on the roof. Then I stared at them like I had so many times and they led me to bed. Like the brown ones, and the blue ones that came first. I loved them all I think. Or I thought I did, which doesn’t make a difference. Those green eyes still burn though. Like that cigarette that never went out. They all do. Whether it’s imagined or sincere. They burn and I can’t stop wondering when it’ll all die down.

           

            The nicotine is stinging my throat and the smoke is caught in my eyes. The mascara’s dried like a child’s Halloween face paint. I haven’t felt so much like myself in months. With all these tears you’d think I felt it all. I just remember though, I don’t feel it at all anymore.