(no subject)
I wear masks to hide my dead eyes.
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She scrubs away her sins with a tattered sponge. Her sins linger in the bathroom sink, on the rims of a toilet bowl. But look at how easily her sins wash away with some Tilex or Lysol and a warm flow of water. Watch them swirl down the aching, gleaming drain. And later her roommate will compliment her on her excellent scrubbing skills.
She scrubs and scrubs. Then in a calmpanic, she situates herself on her extra-wide window ledge because she must write frantically about everything she has just finished scrubbing away. She must read to remember her past because she has so nearly effectively scrubbed her memories. She owns a sterile brain.
And in this way, she tortures herself, scrubbing at her innards, her esophagus with a sandpapery, bitter pad to forget and remember.
I lined up pills today. A colorful array in dull blues, glossy blue with white, yellow with red. Maybe fifty total, maybe one hundred. I've always been terrible at gauging amounts. I looked at them, gingerly touched them, waited for them to explode. I thought about the wonderful sedative power they hold. So sedated, you're dead. If only.
Her life is one big conglomerated mass of If only's and Nearly's. She nearly finished college. She nearly became normal. She nearly killed herself. If only she had.
(I will be an Indian for you--with a feather in my hair!)
The one thing I did do properly was move to New York. And now I look down on the dirty, gun-metal streets from my over-sized window ledge, watching traffic go by at 1:36am.
And the cars go by, past the Floridita (still open). A smattering of business cards strewn on the dishwater gray sidewalk. It is an angry sidewalk.
A million souls contained in a million rooms, withdrawn drapes, hiding from the glare of a neon night and its cacophony of sounds.
New York must be the loudest city in America. Horns blaring at all hours, elevated subway cha-chunking then stopping with a squeal of brakes and hiss of air. Voices shouting--in jubilation,in anger, ANGUISH! ANGUISH! All to be heard. Sometimes people should listen to the whispers.
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When the words left your pale mouth, they crushed my soul and I writhed on the ground.
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(Everything is misshapen and laughable--cut it with a knife!)
tall and lanky with calf eyes and careless hair and i still consistently think of you and the way i never owned your heart and why do i remember you with such pangs of fondness why do i remember your sock clad toes digging into my thighs on superbowl sunday
and the other night when i was giving another man a post-sex massage i remembered that night in austin when you were face down on the salmon couch and i was wearing someone else's boxer shorts and i straddled you and kneaded you shoulders that were sinewy, finely tanned dough and i wanted to put you in the oven and bake you, watch you rise then brown so i could consume you
but instead, it's always you consuming me.
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Place your hand in front of my eyes, so I can't see what I've become.
"STIFLE MY SCREAMS WITH YOUR MOIST PALM!"
And I'm talking to myself.
I am comically drawn with harsh lines and misshapen curves. I blur away.
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Where do you keep your soul when you go to bed at night?
i am careless and leave mine naked on the nightstand
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She scrubs away her sins with a tattered sponge. Her sins linger in the bathroom sink, on the rims of a toilet bowl. But look at how easily her sins wash away with some Tilex or Lysol and a warm flow of water. Watch them swirl down the aching, gleaming drain. And later her roommate will compliment her on her excellent scrubbing skills.
She scrubs and scrubs. Then in a calmpanic, she situates herself on her extra-wide window ledge because she must write frantically about everything she has just finished scrubbing away. She must read to remember her past because she has so nearly effectively scrubbed her memories. She owns a sterile brain.
And in this way, she tortures herself, scrubbing at her innards, her esophagus with a sandpapery, bitter pad to forget and remember.
I lined up pills today. A colorful array in dull blues, glossy blue with white, yellow with red. Maybe fifty total, maybe one hundred. I've always been terrible at gauging amounts. I looked at them, gingerly touched them, waited for them to explode. I thought about the wonderful sedative power they hold. So sedated, you're dead. If only.
Her life is one big conglomerated mass of If only's and Nearly's. She nearly finished college. She nearly became normal. She nearly killed herself. If only she had.
(I will be an Indian for you--with a feather in my hair!)
The one thing I did do properly was move to New York. And now I look down on the dirty, gun-metal streets from my over-sized window ledge, watching traffic go by at 1:36am.
And the cars go by, past the Floridita (still open). A smattering of business cards strewn on the dishwater gray sidewalk. It is an angry sidewalk.
A million souls contained in a million rooms, withdrawn drapes, hiding from the glare of a neon night and its cacophony of sounds.
New York must be the loudest city in America. Horns blaring at all hours, elevated subway cha-chunking then stopping with a squeal of brakes and hiss of air. Voices shouting--in jubilation,in anger, ANGUISH! ANGUISH! All to be heard. Sometimes people should listen to the whispers.
----------
When the words left your pale mouth, they crushed my soul and I writhed on the ground.
----------
(Everything is misshapen and laughable--cut it with a knife!)
tall and lanky with calf eyes and careless hair and i still consistently think of you and the way i never owned your heart and why do i remember you with such pangs of fondness why do i remember your sock clad toes digging into my thighs on superbowl sunday
and the other night when i was giving another man a post-sex massage i remembered that night in austin when you were face down on the salmon couch and i was wearing someone else's boxer shorts and i straddled you and kneaded you shoulders that were sinewy, finely tanned dough and i wanted to put you in the oven and bake you, watch you rise then brown so i could consume you
but instead, it's always you consuming me.
----------
Place your hand in front of my eyes, so I can't see what I've become.
"STIFLE MY SCREAMS WITH YOUR MOIST PALM!"
And I'm talking to myself.
I am comically drawn with harsh lines and misshapen curves. I blur away.
----------
Where do you keep your soul when you go to bed at night?
i am careless and leave mine naked on the nightstand