Wednesday, August 26, 2009

"We're reeling through an endless fall.
We are the ever-living ghost of what once was.
No one is ever gonna
love you more than I do."

Involuntarily bound to this house surrounded by rain and uneasy thoughts,
I broke down. The rain is collecting and my heart is flooding.
If I don't start to swim, I fear everything I've ever known will quickly
become sunken treasure at the bottom of this impossible sea.

Hopeless on the freeway, hazard lights ablaze.
Smoke billowing from underneath the hood, neon fluids escaping,
creating pulsing, narrow, neon rivers beneath my feet.
The action of having to pull over while cars sped past me
best simplified and metaphorically summarized my life.
Something has to change. I can't keep flashing my lights
hoping for someone to help me. Something has to change.

Having come face to face with them before, I thought
I had finally built an immunity to being haunted by
likely and unexpected ghosts. But seeing that I've been in ill health
as of late, I am just as susceptible to old feelings as I was before.
My body just fights them in a new way.
We're happy for one another; the ghost and I.
We waltzed through a memory or two.
I filled in some long overdue gaps.
My "What if?" questions finally received answers.
I bit my virtual tongue as to avoid rehashing
what I've worked so hard to bury.
It doesn't matter, though.
I'm better now.
Ghosts come and go
but what I have is here to stay.

The drunken conversation I brought to the foreground
was one of sympathy and compassion.
We cried. I felt invasive, but I had to tell him
and I had to know all there was to know.
Rain hesitated while all my words preceded question marks;
his answers proceeding silent pauses.
I held my chest as if to take my heart from its resting place,
giving it to him without precaution.
Barelegged, I sat on my knees by his side, convincing him that it was okay.
How a girl so beautiful, yet so completely tragic;
how such a tragically beautiful girl can love and be loved
so entirely and yet never see the love in herself.
She did everything to suppress the light within her,
while only one saw it bright enough to let it shine.
I realized how lucky I am to have the same one in my life;
with the same willingness to make me see my own light,
even on impossible and dark Tuesday nights.
Although we were slightly inebriated, I felt like we learned from things
we thought we would never even discuss.

I am convinced that my body is incapable of properly processing pleasure.
It's much too accustomed to various forms of pain to
understand that pleasure is something I'm worthy of.

It's been one month.
Most would say that one month is merely a speck of time.
Although that is true, it has felt like a lifetime.
What the future holds for this one month old, I am not sure.
All I know is that we've come a long way.

He fell asleep between my legs.
Searching for my soul is a truly tiresome juncture.

I love breakfast.

Monday, August 24, 2009

"Oh, my talking bird
Though you know so few words
They're on infinite repeat
Like your brain can't keep up with your beak"

Flocks of planes intercepting the smoke trails they
carelessly left behind, interfering with the paths of the
black birds; playfully weaving in and out of
the mountainous sky. As I watched the slow,
intimate battle between steel, feathers and clouds,
all I could process was my hunger to fly amongst them.
I may not have wings, and I may not be designed to
brave the wind or the rain, but I promise you that I can fly.
And I promise that once I am given the chance, this cage
will be nothing but a mangled mess of wire, far, far behind me.

Sooner than I thought, I find myself in this empty house once again.
This time, less satisfying.
I am doing my best to interrupt the quiet with
screaming and singing, but somehow the quiet always wins.
I can hear it even now; over my attempts to be in tune and on key,
over the music I insist on making louder and louder, over the
interminable beating of my imprudent heart.
Usually a comfort, the noiseless space between these four walls
is quickly leaving me yearning for voices; ones that are willing
to guide me to where discord and content collide.

I've said these silly words to people less deserving.
No matter how much I open my mouth, no matter
how hard I try to expel these three, single syllable words
my throat closes up and my mouth sews itself shut.
I'm trying to defend myself. I'm not trying to protect myself.

As if money and I were not the finest of bedfellows prior to today,
I received a letter stating that I owe roughly $1,200 to
the state of Michigan. I'm not sure how I'm going to sweet talk
my way out of this mess. I'm always talking my way
out of the things I've done wrong.

I found a dead bee on the sidewalk.
I wonder what she did to deserve such an unforgiving death.
I've probably done worse and have been punished
with a lesser consequence.

When he tells me that everything is going to be okay,
I believe him. Not because he is particularly convincing,
but because he always tells the truth;
something I am rarely accustomed to hearing...
or feeling, for that matter.

While folding piles of mistreated, poorly constructed tshirts,
counting the minutes on my broken watches, black lines
from hangers lining my wrists, pop music pulsing in my ear,
children angrily tugging on the legs of their mothers,
I realized how unimportant most things are.
Life is so much bigger than this little world
I've regretfully created for myself.
I'm making it a goal to find the bigger things.
I want to feel it all.

My imaginary wings are growing weak.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

"You shouldn't think what
you're feeling
They don't tell you what
you know you should want"

Once in a blue moon (or on certain occasions, a six pack of the former)
something happens, whether you're ready or not.
Stumbling through familiarity, tasting of cigarettes,
I said yes or some misinterpreted form thereof.
My twin bed, once accustomed to a solitary occupant, held two;
squeaking with each shift and each swift, inelegant movement.

I'm not sure it was supposed to happen this way.
A damp bedroom, the only sound filling the air was
the incessant crying of my disgruntled cat.
Before I could bite my tongue, it happened.
And what I had held on to for so long flew out of my open window,
which provided very little relief to the unbearable heat.

It followed a day of on and off conversations about painful,
yet good intentions;unrealistic decisions. I was forced to
revisit romantic defeatism.Flashbacks and flash forwards
threatened to erase the moments where I remember being happy.
Part of me wanted to walk away and forget the whole thing.
But instead, I apologized for something that was
most likely no fault of mine and came to terms with the fact
that perhaps they've been right all along.
After hearing those words fall so carelessly
and so rehearsed from his mouth my heart raced at a panicked pace.
It seems as though I'm always the one forced to patch up holes
and mend the patches.
My heart returned to
normal; we returned to us.

The remaining evidence of my charm is a temporary,
milky white stain on my unwashed sheets.
People are looking at me differently
and I fear some people will think me to be a different person all together.
I'm no different, but I'm certainly not the same.

I have to find the energy to wash this long overdue
transgression from my body.
It doesn't matter much.
There's no closing Pandora's box.
There's no going back.

I purchased two used, malfunctioning watches,
both without batteries.
I have no intention of making them tell time,
but I'll wear them anyway.
If anyone should ask for the time,
I will simply tell them that it's infinite
and that there's no going back.

My quiet little house will soon be washed away with sound.
A different set of keys will soon hang from the door;
footsteps other than mine ascending and descending.
I can no longer pretend it belongs to me; the quiet or the house.

Monday, August 17, 2009

"Don't question why she
needs to be so free.

She'll tell you its the
only way to be"

Escaping the clutches of strip malls and deafening black and white noise,
we found a patch of earth to call our own.
Following 37 to 69. Breakfast in heaping amounts.
A little green tent and stubborn, unforgiving fires.
We traveled up river in a silly, little boat;
the sun swallowing the current.
The bottoms of my feet, blackened with dirt.
Mysterious bruises gracing every inch.
Lying on the edge/laying on the edge, underneath
the endless sky of burning dust, making choices without reason.
Shedding my clothes by the sea, running and jumping
spreading my arms like makeshift wings.

I had forgotten how many stars are in the sky.
I was lucky enough to see them all. I lost count.

It hit me while sitting Indian style on a basement floor,
listening to folk music, tapping my fingers steadily on a beer can,
clicking the shutter and shaking the lens.
Nestled into my human back rest, I thought to myself,
"I could be happy here."

There we were, reciting those three words in character.
But I had no idea I would be saying them off stage, when the curtain fell.
I'm not ready to say them or hear them, but I'm feeling them.
It's a tough distinction to make.

The morning after will never be as much fun again.
Jumping on the bed, clothes and blankets strewn upon the floor,
inquisitive stares and shielded eyes.
"You two are perfect for each other" she said.
And in that moment, topless, Pat Benatar playing in the foreground,
he with a yo-yo in one hand, a beer in the other, I had to agree.

Within the past few days some of the worst possible things one person
can say to another person have been said to me.
Within the past few days some of the most loving things one person
can say to another person have been said to me.
I am completely raw. I am completely guarded.
Who am I to believe?

Seeing my face and my body plastered in newspaper print, scattered about
the town is truly a surreal feeling. And I realize calling something surreal
is often times considered cliche, but it's the only word that can skim the surface
of how it makes me feel. The fact the so many people are proud
of me and support me is truly overwhelming.
I don't see how I am in any way deserving of such love.

The thing I hate the most is all I have to offer. Or so it seems.
It scares me to think that once people look past
my porcelain shell, they will be devastated to find nothing but emptiness.

I wonder what people thought of it.
I wonder if people I knew back then,
saw it and thought about how they used to know me.
I wonder if they wish they still knew me.
I miss everyone that vanished.

I wrote some letters.
When a conflict arises, my spoken words often fail me,
usually because of my relentless and biting tongue.
So, I write a letter. I feel safe within the lined margins.
She needs time.
I told her I will do anything to repair the damage I have done.
I don't think she'll let me back in. But I won't let her give up on me.

Synchronicity is my most recent fascination.
The world isn't nearly as big as I thought.
The more people I meet, the more people I realize I've always known.

I've come to realize, despite my past and my present problems, that I may
easily be one of the luckiest people ever to live. I say this only because
I am completely undeserving of the things I have and the people that love me.
But at least I understand that I've done nothing to deserve this life.
I promise that I am going to put forth exhausting efforts to earn this happiness.
I want to work for it. I want to fight against what I've come to expect.
I need this struggle, or I will surely disappear.

For the first time in months, I am completely alone.
The house is still, with no promise of visitors.
The sound of the fan whirring, cats claws tapping against wood floor
the delicate noises of my empty stomach
are orchestrating a symphony of restless distress.
This life is a stranger.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

"All's quiet as she takes her aim.
But the weapons have changed"

A dead dear. A dead deer. A misguided branch. A neglected notebook.
Sore throats.Panic attacks. Sun kissed kisses. Mean spirited jokes.
Coming and going. Soft spoken doubts.

I'm slowly becoming more extremist in my disapproval of most things. I've been silently ranting to myself about obese children and abused farm animals and starving nations and outsourcing employment and prideful gluttony and exploited headlines and over commercialism and pointless consumerism. I am in no way saying I am not guilty of committing the very offenses I have decided to revolt against. But I'm starting to see the wrong in the world and no longer want to be a part of it.

Having been actively avoiding that restaurant for months, I was finally forced to face the three way door and the familiar patch of leather bench. After making a stealthy exit, I stopped for a moment. I stood with eyes closed and labored breath. I briefly revisited that day which eventually led to a downward spiral of self-doubt and confusion. I tried to feel something other than relief, but could not. Without giving it too much thought I skipped away like a child, eagerly anticipating the open arms of the one I have yet to scare away.

I received yellow flowers.
This prevented me from choosing what would surly
be an emotionally self-destructive evening.
I opted against the possibility of being faced with an impossible feeling.

In regards the the previously mentioned yellow flowers,
I still can't believe they are mine.
I've been given flowers twice that I can remember. Perhaps three times.
Once by my parents to congratulate my success in my ballet recital.
And once by my Grandmother for braving a terrifying surgery.
Pulled out from behind his back,
I thought about crying, but decided against it.
Instead I stained my nose and cheeks with pollen.

My hate for wearing shoes is growing
and my love of being barefoot is overwhelming.

I'm under a thousand microscopes.
Each magnification a prettier distortion of the last.
Please, don't pull away. There won't be anything beautiful left to see.

My expectations for happiness are no longer tangible.

While trapped in traffic, I realized that I was at a complete stop beside an exit I once thought I would grow to love. One that I thought my car would drive to without me telling it to. I hesitated. I hate that I hesitated. I don't want to be that type of person. I blame the heat and my overall frustration with life in general for allowing my mind to wander and exit. Right, left, left. Despite my ill fated attempts, I still remember the way. I praise the heavens everyday that my car fights temptation and instead directs me to where I feel safe. Where I
am safe, I should say.

I am a firm believer in second chances
and find myself thankful for those given to me.

A psychiatrist approached me while on my cigarette break and gave me his card. He was half hitting on me, half concerned for my well being. According to him, I looked like a girl with problems.
I can't say I blame him for thinking that.

He's right, for the most part.