Whispers of a Birdy

I examine the catalyst and the factors that led to it
To determine exactly how lucky I am

I enter a cloud of smoke filled with PBR’s and IPA’s
A world of long hair, tattoos, and instrumental rock bands

The bass penetrates my bone and writhes from within
A 27 in one hand, and me in another

A skateboard at his feet, backpack on his shoulders
He spits one-liners from songs I’ve never heard

Beer cans fly over the crowd when the music is good
And bodies do when it’s even better.

The Artist

I explain my story to a visage I’ve never touched.
And has no last name.

Cheap cigarettes in late November.
I’m too old to fall in love.

An old house, transformed garage.
Paintings cover the walls.

Tall and slim, hair longer than mine.
I did not know then that they were his.

He asks me if I want to stay.
But it was the only reason I had come.

I break every taboo I have at once.
But I’m too smart to fall in love.

The tattoos come apparent.
The walls come down.

I find his soft lips through his coarse beard.
Cocaine sex, ash trays in bed.

A nightlong embrace, another taboo.
He shares few words with me.

Flip the vinyl as the sun comes in.
I cannot wait to fall in love.

Prisoners of Love

Every night I lie with my back against my lover.
Wrapped in his arms I sleep in isolation.

Not before he admires the way my exposed body lies.
He can see nothing but his primitive desires.

I beg for words, any at all, but he cannot offer one.
Can no man get me to stay?

I reminisce upon the past. The ones I left for better or worse.
Here lies pedestrian affection at its finest.

For passion conduces an existence of nil but sex and incommunicable thoughts.
And the price of a cerebral connection is a string of faked orgasms.

I refuse to accept the two be mutually exclusive.
But again I lie in the endearments of another failed attempt to spite the odds.

He whispers utter adoration. Rested on my pillow, clumsily I lie.
The same way I’ve always lied, countless times before.

California Killed the Antihero

I no longer search for the ideal candidate for literary immortalization.
So many beautiful creatures—countless magnificent specimens.
As exquisite as they were, their truths never transcended the mystery.

Perhaps duration casts shadows on us all.
Or maybe I was never realistic in my expectations.
Only in the short run can we disregard all fixed costs.

I dismay my eyes have seen too much.
They’ve been blinded by the incandescent radiance of all these obscure wonders.
The colors have spilled together into a pool of murky indifference.

My gripe with reality’s portrait is its copious shades of grey.
Nothing is absolute. Everything is on the fence.
I break anything but character. These characters will break anything but themselves.

Perfection on a platter but it’s alive and it bites.
Nothing surprises. Nothing impresses. Nothing disappoints.
It is all different and that makes it the same.

Vapid. I cast a dozen ideal capstones into the sea.
Alone I sit on the beach with my bare feet on the cold, sharp rocks.
I will never write of my divine dystopia.


Kamikaze Romanticism

I look over his poor posture and wily smile.
Such mannerisms lay primitive yet deliberate.
Evermore alluring.
I slide his colorless nature up my floral dress.
To contract the most foul and infectious disease of obsession.
The kind of love found only in that of a dying creature.
Dead ahead I lock onto his clumsy web of deceit.
And engage.
I was never trying to make it out alive.
His cruelty will make a martyr of me, but I’m no saint.
I’d kill curiosity dead just to save a few cats.
A heavy heart, an empty stomach, a death wish.
I whimper into the ear of a stranger.
And down the neck of a twelve dollar handle of Russian spirits.
I ponder the source.
The knowledge that I couldn’t commit.
The prospect that he didn’t want me.
Or the fact that this gallon of vodka isn’t enough.
For tomorrow is still going to come.

26 May 2014

Mantelpiece Material

Give the hourglass a turn.
Three courses left to go.
Bromidic conversation.
I hide behind a smile.
His rudeness to the help.
Cuts me off at every word.
Stares deep into my eyes.
Remarks upon my beauty.
I struggle to look away.
From his receding hairline.
A fancy dress.
An expensive car.
A stroll along the beach.
Window shopping on the boardwalk.
He whispers in my ear.
There is nothing you can’t have.
It is the biggest lie of all.

The Square Peg, Round Hole Paradigm

He prefaced with each response,
“You’re such a nerd.”
I’m not.
I just have a higher IQ,
And like to read.
Am I really this shallow?
Or am I just that bored?
He’s an artist, a dog lover, an athlete.
Wholesome and philanthropic.
Yet here I am.
120 days.
12 weeks to go.
He told me not to stammer.
“For you hardly know me yet.”
I informed him that my shortness of words,
Had far to do with his close to perfect symmetry.
And much to do
With what little we have.
In common.

Ode to the INTJ

I listen to the clapper of several instruments in harmonious chaos. Or disharmonious serenity. The strums of a stranger. Except I have met him, once before, and I do know him. I don’t know how long he’s lived in this apartment, the name of this whiskey, or even his surname, but I know the movements and sighs he emits as he sleeps. His eyes don’t flicker as I stream my fingers through his hair. I enjoy nothing but the decorating motif and panoramic view of the palm trees. The immaculacy is intimidating.

I struggle desperately for a cerebral explanation as to my overwhelming fear of waking this stranger. Logic will not have the last laugh. I capitalize on the credits. I grab my coat; it’s 2:39am. I hold onto my breath as I let him go. Disembark with an awkward embrace and a hastened pace.

Now alone, I listen to his passion through headphones and connect with his soul. I study his tauntingly cryptic words. There is something disarming in the margins. Patience is a virtue, but I’ve never been a virtuous woman. With an eager hand, I forge every identity and embroider each corner with gold but no, not this time. This time I wait for his truths, patiently in the dark.

10 April 2014

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.