Existence for Granted

Displacement, a vacuum
Heartbreaks yield a smile
Strangers are lovers without
I want so much of nothing at all
Restless
He’s wrecked
More of nothing. Less of now
I don’t like what I want
I pursue the escape
Fall for an exit
Inhale the end
His eyes gaze my soul
Or the lack thereof
Seclusion is pure
Death plays hard to get
Pull me in close
As I shut my eyes
Envision the movement
Stand everything still
It has been a pleasure, of course, missing you
It will be an honor, destroying you.

Emotional Rollerfuck.

The shower runs

Both hands on the tiles

Break everything but character

Break nothing but myself

Light cracks through the door

Render me still

Deflection. The ruse

The red herring was always the muse

Breath held on a word

It’s time to be stifled

A shadow is cast

Hot water drips down

His clothes folded neat‍

Nothing can die

The care is kept deep

But when I stand out

My elbow is held

And so is my throat

Black Tuesday on a Blue Sunday

The sense of rejection
The fear gets lost
The style gets good
The junction is here
There is always a point
The distance is close
I can’t see it now
A gentleman’s cap
A loose conversation
I passed the point
Fuck the silhouette burned
In the lids of my eyes
Your face is stained
Upon the face of my thought
And all that you have
Is the rest of your life
And all that I have
Is a stolen ballpoint
The billiards, the camels
The hands, the scent
The stare, the cats
I never came with intent
The best, the most
I’d never render less
Because I’d offer more,
But then again, you never made the point.

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
Not suicide without note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

Antisocial Dating

I can’t remember the last weekend in which an absurd story wasn’t embroidered in the headers and footers. If every day is noteworthy, no day is ever noteworthy. I went on a date with a friend of a friend. Actually, it was rather me inviting him to a show, because I couldn’t get any other poor sod to rise to the occasion. In a dimwitted attempt at giving back to the community, I’ve recently put a stop to the continuous string of one-hit-wonders with strangers. He insisted on driving the opposite direction to come pick me up…to humor the pretense of formality, let’s pretend.

The first time I’d met him was a couple years ago, when I was with a boyfriend. The second time I’d met him was a year ago, with a different boyfriend. The last time I’d met him was a couple months ago. This time I had no boyfriend, just the dress and makeup of the previous evening’s date. I didn’t know him well, but considering the kinds of blinds and randoms I’d been out with lately, you could argue I’d known him a lifetime.

He picked me up at a quarter to 8pm. A 6’5, slender brunette. Great bone structure, perfect symmetry. It was my first time being in a Prius. He’d brought rum in a water bottle and two packs of cigarettes. My kind of date. We dusted the rum in the parking lot before the show. Sadistik & Cunninlynguists. We had another drink or 2 at the bar and got lost in the music. I hadn’t encountered a romance that was not toxic and in some way ugly, tainted, or wicked in over a year. Hell, the last time I’d been out on a date with somebody with a first and last name was over 7 months ago.

The intertwining of fingers to live music in a dark crowd of true fans tends to evoke a deeper kind of connection. Although I’ve held a match to every one of my fingers, I still found myself wanting to get caught up in the whims and follies of the music junkie. We left before the show ended. I was only interested in seeing Sadistik’s set, and he was only interested in seeing me naked. I’ll admit. When I left the house that night, I didn’t see myself inviting him up. Not deviating from the trend of honesty, I still have trouble seeing myself inviting him up.

I’m not sure when exactly I let slip the notion of a luminous love and instead adopted a notion of twisted despair. Maybe it was when I found out I couldn’t have children. Perhaps it was when I found out my husband slept with my best friend. Or maybe it was when I broke the heart of a virgin and felt nothing but relieved. I want two hands squeezing tightly around my neck, as I throw an arm out into the dark and slap the jaw of an unknown. I don’t want to look him in the eyes, and I don’t want to fuck in daylight.

I got him out of the house before 8am. I left shortly after to go visit my childhood best friend. She bartended Monday mornings at a small dive. Sometimes I find it comforting to be around familiarity, even if they do think I’m nothing but a running gag. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Late afternoon I found myself on a rooftop bar in Laguna Beach, with a forty-two year old man. I still don’t remember his name, or what he did for a living. I’d met him at the dive, and he’d invited me down to his house. I told him I’d drive down to meet him. The last thing I remember was excusing myself to go to the restroom, and dipping out the backside of the restaurant to my car. I never spoke to him again.

I’m not sure why I left.
I’m not sure why I ever leave.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him I was leaving.
I’m not sure why I never tell them when I am leaving.

Ode to the ISFP

As I sat there on that makeshift bench
Of cinder blocks and a skateboard laid across
I watched him strum the strings like no one had before
He took passion captive setting my cold blood on fire
His emotion and his guitar akin in unison
With his fingers on the strings
He roped me in along with every soul in reach
Rhythm was his nature and silence was from nurture
And as I watched the artist feel, and his creation emerge
I felt a dagger through my heart
I realized that I could never sense true beauty as he did
Or feel pain the way he does
As much as I was captivated and in awe of him on that porch
I would never be capable of ever complementing him
I was nil but an admirer, a dilettante, trying to escape
For my calculating eyes don’t see beauty, my ears don’t hear melody
It cuts through me so deeply, the pang of truth that broke the seal
He deserved far more than anything I’d ever have to offer
105 days of swallowing my differences
I hate myself that I couldn’t any longer
For now I have my logic and my reasons
These empty bottles and this pen
My fading memories of him
And this heart that won’t stop breaking.

The Melody of a Malady

I remember the years of unrelenting apathy, how desperately I desired the ability to feel anything but indifference. Love was a spell, and I didn’t believe in magic. I was reckless, falling and abusing myself at every opportunity; there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to see my own bloodshed. Suicidal affection—kamikaze relations.

Then it happened. It was a snowy Christmas in Ireland the day he shattered me with the revelation of his longstanding attachments. He dared me to want it, and I indulged him. It was the price I paid to feel alive—to feel human. No adhesive would salvage this break. It wasn’t clean; it wasn’t quick. It was deep, dirty, and had taken years to fester.

There were several stages of it, and a good few had passed before I’d realized it. I’d traded a lasting love back home for a pipe dream over 5,000 miles away. After that, I tried afresh with another overqualified candidate, and the day I broke him I still hadn’t come close to embracing how damaged I truly was.

Six months in, when I returned to the land of Guinness and rain I started to comprehend, but I failed to recognize the signs when my greatest lover and worst offender held me in his arms. Further I neglected to pick up the pieces when he left back to England. Even three months later, when he wrote me from London to end it, I was too preoccupied with losing myself under the Californian sun in the gazes and thrills of part-time lovers with perfect smiles, slow strides, and no last names.

It took a full year to fully comprehend just how deep into those woods I’d gone. Fifteen months have passed, and still I’m circling the drain on the carousel of condemned souls. With the dissolution of hope, all sense of morality and self-respect has dissipated. I am now just a broken girl who is too sad to give a fuck. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t want to learn names. I want a boy who is so fucked up he doesn’t utter a sound.
And I want him to hate me as much as I do.

The Bunny Ears Won’t Work

I swill the brim and swallow the pills. There is no getting over him. Is it 8AM already? I defer reality beneath the linen of yet another unfamiliar port in the storm. Literally, the berth of a $30 million fishing yacht. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll never forget the way she kissed my forehead as she left.

I hotfoot my cold feet out of that beach city in spite of myself, though I don’t escape the coast. Into the fortress of another foreign mattress. I’m still not done inspiring my reasons for self-loathing. Or maybe I need to reaffirm that I haven’t given up on men; I’ve just given in to women. There’s the added bonus that he stares deep into my eyes with just the right amount of detachment.

I’d rather have meaningless sex than be alone.
But I’d rather be alone than have meaningful sex.
Three beds, two nights, one dress, no panties.

I rack up my sins like a tab at an open bar. Dejected by the only love I want. I won’t stop until no love can ever want me. Not until these vultures have picked every one of my good bones clean. I put my purity on the alter. I smell the exposed flesh and listen to the screams. This isn’t sacrificial wine, but I’ll drink it anyway. My damnation is all I have now.

1543301_10202997400960550_1093472345_n

Ode To The Computer Programmer

Smitten, I lie ponderous.
Thoughts run wild with no inclination to slow.
I wait for his breaths to turn heavier than my thoughts.
Why do I rather stare into the dark than to close my eyes?

I slide my fingers from his. I release from his grasp.
Too sleepy for thought, too thoughtful for sleep.
Sensing my movement, he stirs.
Clenching every commitment issue in hand, I commit to this now.

I have to keep going.
From the goose down I remove, and he arises in question.
“I can’t sleep, gonna go bang away at the laptop for a few.
Go back to sleep.”

–“I love you.”
And that’s how he said it.
I didn’t insult him with a lie.
I didn’t trump him with a truth.

A corner of time so momentous.
Renders little more than the pertinacious application of the backspace button.
The night home row was shocked in mere and utter awe.
I contemplate the catalyst in my statement that struck his barely conscious core with such poignancy.

Go back to sleep. That was the crux.
What about his past renders such a pedestrian phrase so dear?
Never would I dream to impose my insomnia onto his rem cycles.
Does he love me because I’m not somebody, or does he love me because I am?

I delineate my embellishments to depict something meaningful.
I write up a pretty story; I don’t write reality.
This time, the pretty story happened to be reality.
This time alone, reality wrote me.

1:08am

17 May 2013

993842_10202778907098340_1395127767_n