The Wolves

Someday my pain, someday my pain
Will mark you
Harness your blame, harness your blame
And walk through
With the wild wolves around you
In the morning, I'll call you
Send it farther on

Solace my game, solace my game
It stars you
Swing wide your crane, swing wide your crane
And run me through

And the story's all over you
In the morning i'll call you
Can't you find a clue when your eyes are all painted Sinatra blue

What might have been lost -
Don't bother me - Bon Iver



I write this catastrophically pointless letter to myself fragmented. I have no desire to talk to my own mind, but it lets me say the things you won't. It's certainly not for my lack of trying, in fact, all I've ever done is try. I'm a woman of words. Most people find that to be a good thing but maybe in your case it's not. The fact is, I am romanticized by language. By that I don't just mean words and phrases. I mean the language of music and movement of silly putty sunrises and cyan colored walls. I fall in love with the eloquence of a hand on my skin, the meter of a kiss. But it does come down to words. In the end, that is the essential language and it's the one you lack. To communicate is an integral skill which you are blissfully unaware of. What might have been me didn't care for a while, but the falsifications I embodied for a while were just a hoax, you said you knew that all along. To say I love you more than once in a day is like ripping a chalice from your hands. You are addicted to numbness.

I write this catastrophically pointless letter to myself fragmented, because what I have tried to tell you has been pushed aside with iron thumb and key stroke. Like the night I tried to explain why I love you in the most peculiar of senses, you didn't care to hear. I wanted to say that the reason I am so desperately extending myself to you is that there are minutes when I must close my eyes and pull up my nails to make sure your skin is still under them, to make sure you were ever really there. You are the only person on the face of the planet I believe that responds to a general outpouring of human emotion with a smiley face. But maybe you didn't care to hear it because you already knew it was what was going to be said and you were afraid your own heart wouldn't be able to reciprocate it. You're afraid in general. Fear is a common successor of love I've come to realize, but you're better than that.

I write this catastrophically pointless letter to myself so there is written record of how I have contorted myself into various shapes, and moods, and shades for the sake of your contentment. What I melt with butter and touch with my lips is to make you love me. It's a desperate foolhardy attempt but the pathetic nature of love is this: you will do whatever it is you need to do to feel wanted.

In that regard, this is my final attempt. I love you in the most catastrophically fragmented of ways. If only you were a luckier man at a luckier time. What I have come to learn of apparent love is that the lapse into "routine" is more that often the lapse into a cycle of abuse. It's subtle. There are no exterior bruises, no arrests to be made, but it qualifies. This system of ambivalence and disregard and method of ignoring me while be so magnetically present has come to be my demon. You are addicted to the numbness that comes with not feeling anything and I am addicted to the numbness that comes with feeling to much. Just like he hit me with scarlet words and tongue, lashed at me with his beauty, you beat me with your coolness, laying in an emerald green fog over my eyes. Your story is all over you and you don't want me to be a part of it. For a moment you made me feel like a real author, but the things you can concoct in your own hallucinations seem to be far more entertaining than my desperate pleas for contact. Because of that, you are worse than him. He treated me the way he did because he felt everything so deeply. You treat me the way you do because I don't think you feel anything at all.

I call out to you like I call out to the wolves, "someday my hand pain will mark you", someday you will realize what you have done to my heart and your own soul. You are my aphrodisiac and it pains me to see I am no longer yours. Or was I ever? Was I ever the thing you wanted to put to your lips, or merely the smoke circles you wanted to blow; enchanting and amorphous, distorting light and rocking you. But only momentarily, because in an instant I am gone. In an instant you will have puffed me at your lips until I am nothing but ember that burns you, leaving scabs and rough patches that sting with the moisture of your tongue. You will taste me on my tongue, you will see me in the smoke rings, you will feel me in between your sheets, but you will never, you have never, known me. You have only looked through smoke to see what you think is now a right, a given. But you have reduced me to ash. In all my efforts to burn as brightly as I can for you you turned your back to me for warmth, but never saw my glow and my sparks as they tumbled their way into the heavens like the briefest of stars.

I have thrown stars into the sky for you and supplied you with your poison. I have drawn you constellations. I have wiped your tears at my own expense and hidden in the cavernous places of my mind the memories that haunt me and define me and have created me because I didn't think you were fit to see them. Not that you ever made an attempt to remove your rose colored shades. Not that you ever really cared to see.

Begin to see love, or I'll evaporate.
I love you more than you deserve.
-A

February Playlist

1) Something about your love- mason jennings
2) merge, a vessel, a harbor- great lake swimmers
3) broken afternoon- the helio sequence
4) dreamworld- rilo kiley
5) recommendation- little dragon
6) dancing with myself- nouvelle vague
7) sometimes- si*se
8) snow- emiliana torrini
9) walking down- joe purdy
10) that home- cinematic orchaestra
11) i've got to see you again- norah jones
12) so in love- ted lennon and jack johnson
13) not out*- greg laswell

*current musical obsession