(no subject)
my grandmother used to promise me she'd teach me how to pray and when she'd drink she would promise me anything, everything, anything i wanted. my grandfather held out hope for jerusalem and now at one, two am, i wonder what that means and why no one ever asked.
come on, come on.
a year ago i threw myself against the windshield because the right people were watching and i know, i know you're not surprised. a year ago the night shrunk to the space between us, between us and the curb, between what they wanted and what we were proving we already had. these days i stretch the sleeves of my sweater to cover my fingers, red nails, scarred knuckles. these days, these nights, i only sleep next to you or in a medicated calm, blood beating blue beneath my skin and my slow breath. these nights, the low lights, the last laugh and the original sin, the past lives and first loves and lost children, the slow, the slowest fade. so my parents plan for the past by packing it up, box after (loaded) box (alone). so i plan on bleecker to fourteenth, the one nine uptown, on saint sulpice and the six mabillon, on CDG, roissy. i'll pass out and they'll pass me by. (loaded). we'll drive all night. (alone). come on, come on, come on come on come on. my grandmother kept her worry beads over the washing machine. we'll drive forever. a year ago i took my clothes off in a crowded room and screamed what i knew to be true while the right ones weren't really watching not watching at all but barthes said waiting is a delirium and this was the sweat of the desperately fever-hot hallucinated and this was the time and the time and this was flush on flush on flush.
come on.
the bodies carried off in black bags, i sit at the foot of the driveway and smoke a cigarette while the traffic is waiting and my parents are packing, my grandmother falls down the stairs, the beads slip behind the wall and the heat rises and rises and we know we will drive the whole night down.
come on, come on.
a year ago i threw myself against the windshield because the right people were watching and i know, i know you're not surprised. a year ago the night shrunk to the space between us, between us and the curb, between what they wanted and what we were proving we already had. these days i stretch the sleeves of my sweater to cover my fingers, red nails, scarred knuckles. these days, these nights, i only sleep next to you or in a medicated calm, blood beating blue beneath my skin and my slow breath. these nights, the low lights, the last laugh and the original sin, the past lives and first loves and lost children, the slow, the slowest fade. so my parents plan for the past by packing it up, box after (loaded) box (alone). so i plan on bleecker to fourteenth, the one nine uptown, on saint sulpice and the six mabillon, on CDG, roissy. i'll pass out and they'll pass me by. (loaded). we'll drive all night. (alone). come on, come on, come on come on come on. my grandmother kept her worry beads over the washing machine. we'll drive forever. a year ago i took my clothes off in a crowded room and screamed what i knew to be true while the right ones weren't really watching not watching at all but barthes said waiting is a delirium and this was the sweat of the desperately fever-hot hallucinated and this was the time and the time and this was flush on flush on flush.
come on.
the bodies carried off in black bags, i sit at the foot of the driveway and smoke a cigarette while the traffic is waiting and my parents are packing, my grandmother falls down the stairs, the beads slip behind the wall and the heat rises and rises and we know we will drive the whole night down.