excerpt from deadxstop fanzine # 7.
i used her. she didnt even know it was coming. she didnt even tell me her real name but she sat across from me and asked me where it came from.
"excuse me?"
"where did it come from?" she said again.
her response wasnt typical. usually when asked about my past i glaze it over with vague minimal one sentence answers because one truthful answer opens up ten more questions and then the night turns into 'chris' spoken word night'... only there are no books for sale.
"no, i wrote that to purposely be unattractive to a certain type of person."
"right. and i asked here does that come from."
i am familiar with rooms of people scrutinizing me. my past. my adventures. some look to me for insight and some for entertainment and i look to them as an audience of people willing to help filter the pain and regret. but this woman, didnt want the entertainment, she wanted the real deal. so you know what? i gave it to her.
i sat in her drawing room and let go. one thing lead to the next and to the next. not like there was a table of books being sold in the back of the room but like she was a dumping ground for the few secrets i still keep and would never dare to let anyone know or hear. a freedom we all wish for, a confessional with an evaporating priest who offers no penance. i babbled and didnt think of enunciation or continuity or transitions or context. i didnt look at her as an audience or as a therapist or as anyone who even cared. she was a stuffed animal in a dark bedroom at 4am that you cry into screaming, "only you understand." she was the cat that you whisper, "you never left me." she was anonymous and secret and wouldnt tell a soul because no one would even care. there was no six degrees of anything and she didnt even know my last name or what i did to put food on my table but at this moment i held back the tears because i had ever been given such an open platform to let go without fear of offending, hypocrisy or showing the dark cracks in my soul. i let her have it. i assaulted her with words that were only realizations as soon they left my mouth. i scared myself.
"you're nervous right now."
"no, i mean its like im trying to take all of these feelings and make them into coherent sentences but everything is coming too fast."
"you're nervous."
"i am nervous."
but she listened. i shifted my weigh and said, "fuck, ive got to stop."
she grabbed my arm and said, "no, sit."
"i have to go," as i looked at my phone.
but she waited and asked the right questions. it was obvious that i was uncomfortable. and like good will hunting her eyes kept saying, "its not your fault. its not your fault. its not your fault."
i remember very little of that night. but i do remember being shaken by a stranger in ways that no one else ever has or i have ever allowed. right place, right time, wrong dude.
and maybe i did use her, but maybe she was looking to be used.
"excuse me?"
"where did it come from?" she said again.
her response wasnt typical. usually when asked about my past i glaze it over with vague minimal one sentence answers because one truthful answer opens up ten more questions and then the night turns into 'chris' spoken word night'... only there are no books for sale.
"no, i wrote that to purposely be unattractive to a certain type of person."
"right. and i asked here does that come from."
i am familiar with rooms of people scrutinizing me. my past. my adventures. some look to me for insight and some for entertainment and i look to them as an audience of people willing to help filter the pain and regret. but this woman, didnt want the entertainment, she wanted the real deal. so you know what? i gave it to her.
i sat in her drawing room and let go. one thing lead to the next and to the next. not like there was a table of books being sold in the back of the room but like she was a dumping ground for the few secrets i still keep and would never dare to let anyone know or hear. a freedom we all wish for, a confessional with an evaporating priest who offers no penance. i babbled and didnt think of enunciation or continuity or transitions or context. i didnt look at her as an audience or as a therapist or as anyone who even cared. she was a stuffed animal in a dark bedroom at 4am that you cry into screaming, "only you understand." she was the cat that you whisper, "you never left me." she was anonymous and secret and wouldnt tell a soul because no one would even care. there was no six degrees of anything and she didnt even know my last name or what i did to put food on my table but at this moment i held back the tears because i had ever been given such an open platform to let go without fear of offending, hypocrisy or showing the dark cracks in my soul. i let her have it. i assaulted her with words that were only realizations as soon they left my mouth. i scared myself.
"you're nervous right now."
"no, i mean its like im trying to take all of these feelings and make them into coherent sentences but everything is coming too fast."
"you're nervous."
"i am nervous."
but she listened. i shifted my weigh and said, "fuck, ive got to stop."
she grabbed my arm and said, "no, sit."
"i have to go," as i looked at my phone.
but she waited and asked the right questions. it was obvious that i was uncomfortable. and like good will hunting her eyes kept saying, "its not your fault. its not your fault. its not your fault."
i remember very little of that night. but i do remember being shaken by a stranger in ways that no one else ever has or i have ever allowed. right place, right time, wrong dude.
and maybe i did use her, but maybe she was looking to be used.