clock

God knows I've been in dark places.
I have the scars to prove it.
But right now those seem superficial.
Right now to take that damn knife to my forearm
would be a total mockery of where I am.

I've been close to suicide before.
That was so long ago though.
Two years ago.
or was it two seconds?

I've stopped counting

Other

Other just left my house.
My whole face smells like other.
My whole mouth tastes like other.

When other first walked in the door I already had a sinking feeling in my stomach,
I already didn't want to do what I was about to do.
At first, when other brushed my hair back from my face and kissed me,
I felt good.
Not happy, but good.
I had second thoughts a little bit when his hands made friends with the pockets on the back of my shorts.
But I ignored it.
And when he pulled me down on the couch into his lap, I went along with it.
Other really is a gifted kisser.
But other doesn't know how to kiss my neck like he did.
Not once did the breath get knocked out of me.

When other grabbed my hand and laced his fingers with mine, I thought it was a sweet gesture,
but when he guided my hand between his legs, I understood the message.
When I let my fingers glide back up to his chest, ignoring the message, he kissed me harder.
Other picked me up and rearranged me in his lap.
When his fingers edged under my tank top,
I let them.
When his hand slipped under the well placed lace, I let it.
But his fingers were like clunky pieces of clay.
Fumbling and uneducated.
When others' head tried to follow his fingers,
I placed a finger under his chin to redirect his path.

He kissed me some more.
When I surfaced for air and looked at his face,
pushing the dusty brown hair here and there,
the only thing I could think of was
"blonde is more fun to play with"
He smiled that goofy smile at me.
The smile of a man thinking with the lesser of his two brains.

I asked other, "What you so smiley about?"
Other's reply, "nothing."

He would have never said nothing.

Other kissed me some more.
But it didn't feel as nice this time.
His spit wasn't so much sweet as it was just slobbery.
And his whiskers hurt.
He tried to guide my hand again.
I refused.
Again.

The next time I pulled away he said he needed to check his phone.
Then he said he had to leave.
Then he kissed me and pinched my ass and walked out the door.

I shut the door.
And let tears flow for the first time in two weeks.

The collision is such an ugly sound

The collision is such an ugly sound. I can still hear him talking in my mind. His words, woven in the same pattern as Italian cashmere, are more coarse than ever. Their abrasive tendencies have become overwhelming. Where the strings have rubbed repeatedly up and down, there are pulsating welts on my cerebral cortex. I sit on the floor trying to find a rhythm in the pulsations, but to no avail. Without him there is no rhythm. No, that's not right, without him the rhythm is to complicated. Cymbals crash while a pipe flute sings a sweet tune of free jubilation. My piano pounds pound a refusal while his guitar drags me by my heels back into submission. A violin wails upon cascading triads, a cello cries. A bass plucks out a bouncy, ethereal melody. It all attempts to integrate in my mind but the result is a horrible clash of music on silence.
The collision is such an ugly sound. With him gone there is a resonating silence. The nooks, crannies, and spaces that he kept so forcefully occupied with his will are now cavernous. But now they are free, they are free for me to do with them what I wish. I could fill them with new wills, of my own or of others. I could store things away in them. His old sweaters and photographs and pictures, I could hide all those in the nooks and crannies. Something must be done about them though. Currently, their vacancy offends me. Currently, the vacant spaces are offended. They are offended by the symphony that threatens to break over my parapet at any time. I'm fighting however, I am fighting.
In the tumultuous symphony of repulsion, I can find a tune or two. Those help. As long as I can ride the high of something transcending my own pathetic pain, something more mournful than the look on my own face, I can find momentary solace. As long as I keep pen to paper, finger to key, I am momentarily sedated.
And then there's the other, the other "him". He is trying his best to kiss away my worries, and I can say his efforts are not in vain. When his lips meet mine and the grass bends underneath my elbows, quaking from his weight, I am appeased. It's in those moments that I remember what it is like to be adored and appreciated. Not loved, I don't want to feel loved again. But maybe the correct term is lusted for.
I can't depend on the other to keep my hell at bay. For one, you can't depend on what you don't have for sure. And if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is for sure. So in short, you can't really depend on anything. I like other. I lust for other. But then again, other, is just that, the other.
The collision is such an ugly sound. When he tries to reach me, in his pathetic way, it's offensive. It makes me want to rip eyes from sockets and hair from scalp. It turns me primal. No I'm not happy but I'm certainly better than I was aren't I? I'm certainly having more fun.
I'm certainly finding my place in the disruption of the universe.
Then why am I not jubilant.
Why am I not filling the spaces.
Why am I resisting the cacophony of instrumentation.
Why is the collision of happy on him such an ugly, revolting, hideous, sound?

Playlist: July 2009

My friend Enya at ydubs got me on this kick of making a playlist for every day, then every week, then eventually the whole month. so here's July's.

The Illusionist- Volair
All Cried Out- Fink
White Picket Fence- Joe Purdy
Second Chance- Liam Finn
Last Night I Dreamed that Somebody Loved Me- Grant Lee Phillips
Stormy Weather- Little Dragon
Rootless Tree- Damien Rice
Ungodly Hour- The Fray
Never Say Never- The Fray
Fix You- Coldplay
Heartless (Kanye West Cover)- The Fray
Marionette- Meredith Nnoka (ydubs)
Contact- As Cities Burn
Tourniquet- Thomas Reid (ydubs)
Battlefield- Jordin Sparks
It's a Sight to Behold- Devandra Banhart
The Guy that Says Goodbye to You is out of his mind- Griffin House
Choices- Xavier Rudd
Be Here Now- Ray LaMontagne
Straight Away- Mat Kearney
Delicate- Damien Rice
Almost Honest- Josh Kelley
Funny (But I Still Love You)- Ray Charles
It's Not True- William Fitzsimmons
Keep Breathing- Ingrid Michaelson
I Really Want You- James Blunt
Hide and Seek- Imogen Heap
Jolene (cover)- The White Stripes
Fight Outta You- Ben Harper
I Will Not Let You In- Sara Schiralli

emancipated

I wanna kiss a boy.
I get to kiss a boy tonight.
A boy who's wanted to kiss me for a very very long time, or so I've heard.
I'm as excited as hell.
I forgot what it feels like to be kissed by anybody but him.
But I don't know if I want to be reminded.
I still miss him after all.

But I wanna kiss a boy.
and I'm going to damn it.

Jeff

First get out of my car so I can start understanding you.
Take your ratty sweatshirts and boxers and oxfords I never had a taste for J Crew.
I guess I should've known,
that when all a man's best friends are girls,
it's time to hit the road.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.

You said it hurt your feelings when they called you a fag but suck it up why are you crying?
I loved how you were sensitive to all my feminine feelings, like you weren't even trying.
I should've trusted that old intuition,
that any man who's that submissive,
cannot be straight.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.

If there's one thing that hurts even more than the fact that you left.
It's that it wasn't for Marissa, or Alyssa, or Christie, or Gertrude, or Samantha, or Chloe, or Molly, or Claire,
You left me for Jeff.

So thanks a million Jeff,
you stole my boyfriend.
Thanks a shitload Jeff,
you stole my boyfriend.

The ugly truth is I never did much for you did I?
Your hair always looked better than mine and it sure as hell took more time.
Baby you're gorgeous I swear you look fine.
I don't think you're petty, of course you're not vain.
But I do think you're gay.

A Reflection

I've never been much for journals. I find them cliche and uninspired. I've always thought of them as excuses for people who can't express their feelings in more creative ways. But maybe tonight I need that simplicity.

I forgot what it was like to be desired. Not in just a physical way, but an all out I just want to see your name in my inbox kind of way. I hadn't had that feeling in a long time.

But as it turns out, he has. He has wanted me for a long time. Before I even started dating John, he wanted me. And he still does. And now he calls me his favorite. He says he can't wait another day to see my pretty face.

It's not elaborate. It's not romantic. It's not poetry. It's simple.
It is so simple and so refreshing
I can hardly contain my excitement.

So what if he throws a football instead of swinging a racket.
So what if he parties with his actual guy friends instead of writing music to play for all his chick friends.
So what if he's not the male copy of me.
So what if he's the red blooded American male.
Maybe he'll treat me like a fucking lady.
That would be so incredible.

He did say I was his favorite after all.

Dear Journal,
Today I was emancipated.
-Abby

Big Black Train

Bang, bang, bang goes the big black train
behind the house where you live, your asylum.
The couch where you scrawled my name in cobalt ink
got taken away with the gravel on that big black train,
that big black train.

It's hell or high water for us.
Neither one's a fortune but it's what we've got.
You're all I've got

Round, round, like a damn carousel
go the marionettes I have for thought.
Chalked faces that I see on the pillow where your head
ought to be but it's gone on the big black train,
oh the big black train.

It's hell or high water for us.
Neither one's a fortune but it's what we've go.
You're all I've got.

Let me tell you why you're faulting with my honor.
Let me tell you why you're teasing with my mind.
It's these people, oh all these people,
they all seemed so nice,
they all seemed so nice.

Until bang bang bang goes the big black train
and they're vagabonds with their malicious thoughts.
Bang, bang, bang go your heartstrings
I would know
when the train rolls in
I swear to God I won't go.

If It Kills Me.

Baby don't give, baby don't give this up.
We've been fighting it for too long, for you to throw your hands up and say we're done.
Does she love you like I did, does she run in circles to define it,
does she know the exact color of your eyes at three in the morning,
by the way,
it's the most perfect shade of gray I've ever seen.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Baby don't give, baby don't give me up.
I've been in you lines so many times, I think I'm more than just a verse.
Do you know why you loved me, why you held nothing else above me,
do you know why your skin always felt cold under my fingers.
Goes to show, I'm anything but cold when I'm with you.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Tell me love, tell me love what's wrong.
You've been hitting up the forget me nots like you don't plan on coming down at all.
Does the smoke hold you like I can, does it call you in the morning,
does it whisper your name like it's a prayer.
And by the way, I still don't believe in God today.

Oooo,
Ooooo.

Baby don't give baby don't give this up.
Baby don't give, baby don't give me up.
Come on love, come on love lets get up.
Baby don't give, Baby don't give up.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Ll9xhRZ5W4

Home

I walked into the room smelling of lavender and uninhabited musk and saw that framed picture of us, me with my virgin smile and you with your homeless hair. Without thinking I dropped the bag loping from my shoulder strode across the carpeted floor and hurled the picture at a wall. It landed with a satisfying crunch, the wooden frame splintering and the glass cracking. I sunk to the floor and wept. I reached for the guitar you always hated and strummed it's heart chords and wept.

I haven't cried in a week. I haven't been able to. But being here in this room is more than I could ever have imagined. The last time you were here you were holding me, loving me, declaring me yours. I have to change my sheets now. I can't sleep on something like that.

Maybe if I sit here and I don't stop writing and playing this old guitar I will not have to face the fact that you are within minutes of me. At any moment your car could roll up my street like it always use to, the windows down and acoustic rock pouring out of the old creaky speakers. I wish you would roll up my street. You won't though. You won't.

Now I'm cleaning up the glass where the picture fell. And now there's blood on my hands from where the shards sliced into my fingertips. I haven't felt blood flow like that in almost a month. I think I might throw up.

I don't want to be home.

success, penance, and reparations

Now it's 7 36, and I haven't slept a wink all night. around 5 30 as the sun rose I looked around me. All my favorite people were splayed out in varying degrees of dreaming. The concrete balcony that we adopted as our communal bed was littered with 5 hour energy shots, empty red bull cans, and pringles packages. With my guitar idling beside me, having already served it's purpose in composing my sunrise lullaby for all my friends, I was left to be my own companion.
As I watch the sky shift from navy, to periwinkle, and then to dusty blue, a wave of warmth fell over my face. Rubbing the grit from my eyes, I soaked it in, pure, untainted, natural. As my fingers laced themselves through Lo's hair, her head resting on my knee. I felt momentarily at peace. For the first time in a very long time. It won't last long. It's already fading. The moment I cross that border from Virginia to Tennessee I know the anxiety will kick in. I'm not going home. Or it's not the home I used to know. I'm scared. I'm scared out of my mind. Maybe there will be some sunlight there too though. Maybe.

My Endeavor

I have set out on the favorite of all my endeavors. It's five a.m. and I haven't slept in over a day. I sit on the balcony of the place I've come to call home, and I have set a mission for myself. I will write until the day starts. I will not stop typing, strumming, writing, or singing. Even if I am writing about nothing I will write a sonnet, about nothing. I won't stop. I need to know that I have the strength to persevere through something. That I can set a goal for myself and achieve it. The word independence is scrawled across my foot in borrowed ink, but I want to own it... I will not stop writing.

Clarity

What if I called, if I called to say I'm sorry,
would you listen to me.
What if I laid, if I laid in the middle of the interstate,
would you listen to me then.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear to you.

What if I stood, if I stood under your window for three weeks,
screaming I love you.
What if I tied, if I tied myself to your big oak tree,
so you could throw things at me.
What if I wore, if i wore your favorite red plaid shirt,
every day for you.
What if I climbed, if I climbed to the tip of your chimney,
so I could throw the stars down on you.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear to you.

Maybe you broke my heart,
but maybe I played a part,
in tearing us down.
And maybe I lost my way,
maybe you lost your faith,
but I'll do anything.

Just tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
tell me what I gotta, tell me what I gotta do,
to make it clear I'll take care of you.
To make it clear, I'm here for you.
To make it clear, that I love you.

I cannot stop this pen.

I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop this pen because stopping this pen would mean to bring the constant ebb of morphine
that drip drop drips into my veins
to a standstill.
If I stop this pen I will be forced to acknowledge my surroundings.
I cannot stop this pen at five in the morning
perched upon a concrete parapet
dangling above the thriving crossroads and smoldering street lamps.
I cannot stop this pen.
I would have to acknowledge the shivers running down my limbs from the poison I've ingested,
the drug I have claimed.
I would have to consider the man who's head rest in my lap.
The head of a man
who I do not love.
How I wish he was you.
How I wish you were all these things.
The consistency of your absence has made me weary
and in your leaving I have fallen asleep.
But now I am awake and wishing I was dead.
Now that I am no longer slumbering I am fully aware of the space that is bare without your presence.
And so I cannot stop this pen.
I cannot stop the words that are dreary and mediocre substitutes for your kisses
and good night phone calls.
Damn it.
I cannot stop this pen.

My rambling guarantees to you love

Last night, I romped the streets with the word "independence" tattooed onto the arch of my right foot. As I padded along clumsily on my stilts, I felt the jets of ink stab into my skin, mocking their own irony. As the Irish piano man warbled in my ear I removed the stilts and allowed my bloody foundations to rest upon the marble and I reclined. Spread out above me like godly vomit, the smattering of satellites and stars and angels. Their consistency was interrupted by the branches of trees and the glare of smoldering street lamps. The couple seated behind me giggled behind hands as they shared secret glances, I tried my best not to look.
All the while I felt the word burning on my foot and my thoughts turned to you. You are the irony of this situation. In being apart from you I am more dependent than ever before. But in a new light. I depend upon you not as a caretaker, that can no longer be. But as something to care for. It's been ages since I cast my eyes upon your live face, but I can picture your stare vividly in my mind; frenzied, confused, scared, angry. I know love that right now you do not know who or what you are. And I know that whoever this creature is that inhabits your form does not want me. But I've seen inside your soul before and I know what's tucked away in all the nooks, crannies, and tight places. But you cast your nooks, crannies, and tight places in shadows and somehow along the way they had slipped from my mind. But in your absence I remember them now. I remember that you are only a man. You are only a human.
Being wiser than I, you always seemed to remember this about me. And for that I can't thank you enough. You always took care of me, a personality quality I took for granted. Now that I'm alone I don't long for a care taker, at least in this separation I have come to realize that I can take care of myself. And by take care of myself I include the element of being mentally sound, of putting down the blade.
I fumbled my way in the dark with my needles, pins, and razors. You're fumbling with your smoke and your sex. We all have our coping mechanisms and while it breaks my heart, I understand. I don't apologize for snarling because I had the right to snarl. Part of how you ended me was cruel, but some of it was deserved.
You say that you are happy. Happier than you were. That I believe. I know that you are happier now than you were in those fleeting last moments with me. The ones scarred by jealousy and hatred and rash decisions. But are you happier than you were when I was sane? I know the answer.
I want you to be that happy again. You will be that happy with me, I'm ready to take care of you. I relied on you for so long that it wore you down. It's my turn now. It's my turn to take care of you. You don't know who you are right now. But I know who you are. I know.
When it comes down to her. She. It. That girl. I don't resent her. I'm jealous as hell of her because it's her lips that touched yours tonight, but I don't blame her. Who wouldn't want you. I don't know her, but from what I can see, she's beautiful. From her dark long hair and sparkly eyes, to her gliding curves. I'm sure she fits well in your palms. But I guarantee you she can't love you like I can. Maybe you feel the same rumbles in your gut that you felt with me, but I guarantee you she doesn't feel what I feel. What I felt. I guarantee you she doesn't look at your face and see everything she wants to be. I guarantee you she doesn't look at your face and see her entire life looking back at her. I fucking guarantee it.
And I guarantee she will never love you like I do.
And I guarantee she has never felt the level of regret I feel that I ever pushed you away.
I guarantee it.

Itch

Like a child I saw you crying,
but I don't care unless you're crying for me.
Your stained sheets and pillowcases,
your sad pleading faces,
won't sway me.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

Don't say that you love me now,
I would hate to rearrange your precious face.
So go love on your mirrors,
and see if you feel her,
while my hips remain tight laced.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

If you love me don't let me go,
If you love me don't let me go.
Don't let me down,
Don't let me down.
Because you rattle my bones love
you rattle my bones,
Stop rattling my bones,
stop rattling my bones.

You left no time for regret,
it's just like you said,
gotta scratch your itch.
You left no time for regret,
can't control your tongue,
and once the final bell has rung,
you'll see what you've done.

Shower

As the suds and acidic solution run down my back and into the dip in my spine you loved so much, I close my eyes and let the steaming monsoon engulf me. I feel the tiling beneath my fingers, slippery with condensation and soap, providing no handholds, no safety. I let the water run down that curve that you've traced so many times. You know the one I'm talking about. The on that slopes inward as it descends from the bottom of my ribcage to the tip of those hipbones. Those hipbones those hipbones that you would so viciously scavenge for. The bruises you left there are starting to fade now, so I lean back and ask the water, Hit. Me. Harder.

Office Space

In class we had to write a song based on a thirty second play about a ghost who can't fix a copy machine because her hands just go through it. and this is what i came out with....

You let me down,
with your overused wastebins, pencils and pens.
You pushed me aside,
with my heart on your sleeve and my paycheck on your mind.

So I'm kicking at the copy machine,
trying to get back all the pieces of me that you,
so carelessly filed away,
without asking.

Now I'm office space,
just another desk to fill with another pretty face.
It breaks my heart,
to see the notes that you leave her on microsoft word.

I'll be your lights,
a little too fluorescent and a little too bright.
I'll wash you out,
as you walk right through me on the way to her mouth.

So I'm kicking at the copy machine,
trying to get back all the pieces of me that you,
so carelessly filed away,
without asking.

You know I loved you until that day,
your scarlet letters blew up in my face,
and now I'm taking up your office space.
I'm taking up your office space.

And I'm kicking at the copy machine,
all that I can feel is ink running through my feet.
You don't see me just like the day you thought,
I didn't see you in our bed with,
your secretary on the day,
you cheated on me.

So now I'm taking up office space.

The Firefly Proposal

Last night I found your face at the level of my knees,
You picked me out a firefly and called it a ring.
I swear that I saw Jesus and he didn't seem so mean,
but I guess things aren't always as they seem.

You got mad my dirty spectacles kept your light from shining through,
so I traded in my lenses and nothing else was new.
At our last meal the waiter asked "how will you take your disease?"
and we both replied "I'll just take the regular please."

We were so infinite,
we felt so infinite.

I've been sitting in your windowsill for the best part of today,
my clock had it's own heart attack but I'm pretty sure I'm late.
And i thought you saw me creeping so I just wrote a note instead,
I heard you laugh when I called you darling.

But now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.
Right now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.

We were so infinite,
you swore we were infinite,
but now we're in for it,
now we're in for it.

Dear Mine

Despite the separation I've been seeing you everywhere,
your eyes are worn into the tree before me.
Despite my desperation all the roots are letting free,
and I'm seeing it go down in sharp relief.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

Indeed my inclination is to make salsa of my heart,
and throw in the herbs that we collected.
Although release it sounds delicious,
I won't let you let me go,
so I'm descending into that fiery world below.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

The bricks that you laid may be impervious to urban decay,
but then God's a killer and creator.
And this overgrown oak tree that I"m sitting beneath,
well like I said it has the eyes of you.

Dear Mine do you remember,
the flaming arch in the field where you loved me.
Do you recall how the chiggers,
nibbled at your sundrenched skin,
as you stood in the field where you loved me.

The Civil War Wasn't That Long Ago

My dear your old ways sit on my bookshelves, gathering dust,
gathering dust.
Your passion please are pages I don't want to read but find I must.

So pull your bayonet I'm ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

My love your new ways sit in my front seat making small talk with me.
Your fierceness ran away to play with other feelings and forgot me.

So pull your bayonet I"m ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

Who's side are you fighting.
Who's bed do you lie in.
Who's bed do you lie in.

So pull your bayonet I"m ready.
Climb my parapet I"m prepared to fall,
on the old front line.

Original Sin

Your fire walks, you show and tell,
your blooming bruise, I predict the tickets will sell.
Sell you out,
kisses from your red rose lips.
You turn me out,
until I'm nothing but bones again.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Your violet wars, your recycled tongue,
your leather shoes, but leather doesn't last long.
Long you'll be in the pavement's eyes.
Let my light be before you suck it dry.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Let your edge out,
Edge your love out,
I wanna see you edge out,
edge out.

Where do you draw the line,
I'll find out, I'll find you out.
Because I want you,
because I want you,
for your original sin.

Inside Man

Paving the streets as I do, I qualify as a mender. The simplistic means of transportation are faulted without their guard. So in my own way, I am your safe keeper. In my own way, I am your guardian. In my own way, I am your still flowered mother. My womb, though empty, claims you and cares for nothing other than your well being. I’ve taken you from your Southern dirt roads into the thriving metropolis where your tar is always foul and your streets are the rocks for you to go forward upon safely. I pave for you my sweet love. I fill your facets with gravel and mortar, to keep your inside parts tucked away. I am excellent with pavement. The exterior world delights in my delicate care. However, follow me into my home with its chipped tiling and I am worthless as the fearful entrepreneur. Ask me to fix the inside cracks and I will cower. Ask me to wipe the sweat off the yellowing linoleum and I’ll run with my rag for the street lamps that line Central Avenue. Ask me to take to the cobwebs strung along the eaves, which dangle and drip drop drip onto this floor and I will let my excuses run like whiskey from the bottle to the drunk. I pave the streets. I am not an inside man.

Gaby Calvocoressi Poetry Workshop= life altering

I took a poetry class from Gaby Calvocoressi and it absolutely blew my mind. Other than being an incredible poet, she's a phenomenal teacher. She's quirky and precious and talks about playlists and music and how she likes to write on big pieces of butcher paper, which she made us do. She asked us to think about the most difficult topic to write about for each of us personally and then to draw the image that comes to mind when we think about it. Then focus on a specific element, describe it, and then write something. This is in no specific form, like I said in the workshop it's just words put in an order. But it changed the way I go about writing.

The day that the sky feel through was supposedly a bright one. And while the exterior perimeter of her form reflected the image of the ironically ordinary, the surface area boiled. Later, as the water pounded on to the fresh open apologies it was as if the expulsion of physical matter could expel the one. The allergy to affection resulted in a resounding chorus of desperation, seeking the former penetrability. All the while ignoring the fact that a slew of new lesions made renewed entry next to impossible for anyone less than a martyr. An ordinary man is by no means a martyr, what with selfishness, defensiveness, despondency, and that thing they call desire. But what better is a woman? The stereotypical delicacy is indeed just that, a delicacy. The iron clad resolution required to endure pure adoration from another knows no gender. It know no bounds. It has no enemies. And with this stunning resolution that she was "contraire, car elle est juste" the seal was reinvented.

hello highly neglected blog...

I haven't been on this thing in months. I didn't have a reason too. I had a sounding board then, but the sounding board is gone and now I'm fumbling through heavy air looking for something substantial to lie my fears on, and this is all I could find.

I don't know why, but I keep thinking about that same damned frayed oriental rug. The one in my kitchen, with it's shades of yellow and coral. How many steps I've taken on it. Everything that's happened on that damn rug. But now I am the damn rug. Outdated and frayed, abandoned, and abused. But I don't want to be a victim. I hate being the victim. Despite the consequences I refuse to admit to being victimized. Victims are the people who didn't fight hard enough. I fought my hardest. I'm still fighting. Should I give up? Probably. Will I? Probably not. Love's a stupid indecisive thing. It fucks with your head, in so many ways. I hate it. I hate love. I hate to love anybody because there is always the chance that they will do exactly what has happened. Hurt me.

I've heard from multiple sources that I should leave. Leave everything I've gathered in my little basket in the middle of the road and hope a god damn truck runs over it. But I can't do that. I want to forgive. I need a reason to, I need something to fight for. But I want to so bad. I want someone to give me a reason to fight for them. I want someone to fight for me.

I can't think of your face without thinking about kong dog toys. You stuff all these disgusting things in them for bitches to lick out at their liking. It's a disgusting analogy but I've found particularly accurate in the past few days.

I can't think of your mouth without thinking about her tongue in it. And I can't think about her tongue without thinking about her tacky blue eyeshadow and smoke rings. And then I think about how beautiful she is. Yes, beautiful in a slutty disgusting way, but beautiful all the same. More beautiful than me. She exudes the kind of confidence I could never even muster. I never was exactly what you wanted I guess.

I love you. I hate that I love you. Because it makes me forgive you. And it makes me hurt. Physically hurt. Pain in my chest vomiting hurt. I hate it. And what I hate the most is that I can't hate you. I can't make myself hate you because I want you so bad.

And you don't want me.
you don't want me.
you don't want me.

I can't read you. I can stalk you all I want and read your twisted blog entries, hoping to find some kind of window into the extraterrestrial structure that has become your brain, but I walk away confused. And dissapointed. And heartbroken.

The heartbreak part comes in waves. but it's always there. Sometimes it takes the form of anger. Sometimes, the form of sickness. Sometimes, loss. But always, always, in the form of hope.

And that's the part that hurts the worst.