i can tell that we are gonna be friends.
my friend (thinsparrows) and i wrote this a few months ago, and she had it posted to her blog. i'm not exactly sure how long it's going to last there, so here it is for keepsake and other's viewing pleasure. she's italics. written on aim.
inspiration is a fickle dame.
her foot is in my face. she grinds me on the pavement and laughs at my sputtering words. then she leaves without a word.
she'll come later to clean the wounds and clean up the blood before spitting in your eye and saying it shouldn't be.
and she seems to especially enjoy pouring iodine into the cuts.
best friends with distraction.
who's always ranting on about needs and desires and unfulfilled dreams
she doesn't listen. passes the message onto us.
slips out the door.
for a smoke before saying "it's getting late" and walks down the lawn without another word, and no matter how hard you scream that you need her, and want her, and miss her even though she's right there, dancing in front of your eyes, it's as if she becomes deaf as soon as emotion runs high along with damage.
emotion turns to sitting in your bed on the best days for her to visit. but they've broken up a while ago, and reunions, though high with energy, are more rare than love nowadays. they always end just as quickly as they begin. and then she's smoothing out her dress and flipping her hair and taking a drag on her cigarette, and walking out the door. like she always does.
but not before kissing a napkin with her lips smeared with deep red, and she writes something below the mark. you're hoping it's her phone number and you're already worried about calling, and she turns it over, giving you what you think is a rare smile and pushes it towards you. you're itching to overturn it but refuse to until she's out the door, heels clicking like ringing in your ears, before you turn it back over and see her handwriting reads "we're not so sick in the head"
you itch in your bed, then, at night, sleepless. the napkin sits on your bedside table. you can feel her voice in your head, sitting on your mind, legs crossed and smiling the way she does. you pray for sleep to take you, but some after-hours time later, you find yourself pressing keys with clumsy, drowsy nerves jolting in your fingers. the plastic of the phone feels cool against your flushed cheek, so when it rings thrice, and clicks audibly, it is some sort of relief when you pale and heat. it's been answered but nothing travels across the airwaves. you grip the side of your bedframe and nothing escapes your throat, mouth gaping and ear pressed all too close to the tiny speaker.
you realize that this is exactly what happens every time, open space with nothing being sent across. the static scratches at your head and plants a tumor that you're pleading will take you before you admit defeat and uncertain end.
it's always pride that's at stake.
before it can be subjected to demoltion, you clumsily slam the phone down to its reciever. crawl into bed and curl into yourself.
you wake up at five am because of your haywire alarm clock that seems to take sadistic pleasure in ruining rare dreamless sleep that you don't run from. she's still there, in your head, leering images and malicious sounds.
distraction invites herself in.
she also comes with images and sounds, not all pleasant, not all destructive. and you end up watching the clock and every minute feels like a second spent, wasted, along with your last breath and last thought. because that is distraction's goal in life. all she wants is your time, but she's got blood-ties with greed. after a while, you find her sucking your hours and energy.
in your head, she's a high-class prostitute.
in reality, she's just the girl next door with too much malice in her head to even itself out into some form of safe destruction.
but that is the classic american tragedy, sweet girl left to fend for herself, world turning her cold and indifferent and forcing her to give up the one unworldly possession that used to define her and now is used against her.
such is the love triangle you've set yourself up in.
such is the headboard you find yourself diving headfirst into every morning and night.
such is the edge of the bar, the hems of dresses you're clinging onto far too many nights after work.
such is the blood and sweat and, inevitably, tears the you manage to keep in until the last moment when you think you're alright and it finally caves into you, your insides destroyed and crumbling.
the kind of shit people pay big money to find on canvases. if only a visit would be paid by that elusive devil that caused all this.
i hear the devil is dating her now. the one with sickeningly red lips who only wears cocktail dresses and sends out her laundry, ever eluding you and is determined never to give in. in that respect, you and she are quite alike.
except, you've already shown your willingness.
it's a curse not to forget the existance of something that keeps your soulessness away.
"it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all" was a promotional ad love's pr came up with to get more screen time.
if her ravishing looks and golden locks didn't get it for her first. but you've always got a bad apple in the bunch who is not swayed by that first look. they are the troublemakers that promote the truth people avoid. so they can greet the end of the world with open arms and their myths of jesus held high in their hearts. the troublemakers are love's favorite to sway. they always fall so hard in the end.
love is far from loving. love is a sadistic fuck who rules over us all and we're drones chanting her name constantly. it's where she get her kicks from. god forbid love actually loves--the world would unravel and split into millions of shards that can never be put back together no matter how many horses you kill to make glue.
love rules your triangle. how are you going to defeat her?
leave her out of the equation entirely. this is not love. this is what came of malice and desparation's child.
your life is bastardization at its fullest.
wedding bands and bells and the color white should never be associated with you.
i only serve to perpetuate.
triangles are the sharpest shape.
circles are the trickiest to create.
but they are the safest and the strongest and the smallest. the hold so much without creaking and cracking. they can hold love and distraction and malice and desperation along with hope and faith and promise and the future
but a circle can never hold that one with clicking heels and those damn red lips that never leave a stain on any champagne glass but only that one napkin and your neck
she leaves behind all notions of safety you ever hoped for.
you only notice this after you find yourself walking on the ledge of the highest window in your house.
and that's no time to remember the sanity you held before she sauntered in.
there's always that question of jumping or not, and as soon as you walk away you find her face in your head smiling a smile that screams 'i knew you wouldn't. i knew you couldn't. i knew you'll never have the courage'
and so you're caught constantly trying to prove yourself.
jumping is the answer to her smug smile. climbing off is the answer to love's promise.
but love is distant and she is now. and so you're standing there on that ledge with the wind blowing and the ledge becoming slick and you're praying your foot doesn't slip.
if you're going to jump, you actually want to jump. slipping would be self-defeating.
so you scratch your numb fingers at the windowpane wood, look down. raise a foot. hold your breath.
you want to cry. you want to cry so hard that you end up crying all the body fluids out of yourself. you want to scream so loud your throat ruptures and blood bubbles hot and heavy. you want you bleed out any sense of rejection and rage you've ever felt in your life.
because when you feel like this, this unseen pain you suffer through for all the promises that never came true, for all hope's trickery, for what inspiration has brought you to, you want to bleed like you do. you want to feel your soul sliding itself out through your veins until it grates your skin as it climbs out the largest gash you left on your body. the exit is inevitable. and you jump.
and you have never felt freer. and for a moment, you forget about the cold pavement below.
until the jagged black stones cut into the face of your pain, stab it right through the heart and fold its limbs up until it can fit inside any coffin. where it belives it belongs. where you've put it.
and in the last moments of your life you realize that you created the shapes you've hated for so long. and that there was a way out. that there was a happy ending.
regret is the last word on your lips.
she was the only one rooting in your corner.
she was your soccer mom, in a sense, which you always seemed to laugh at as she sat in the dug out in a cocktail dress. it was slightly ridiculous.
but she was the one who followed you to every game, every playoff, every showdown. she whispered in your ear. but you were too wrapped up in the jagged edges of your triangle. she was a fly on the wall to your destruction.
you're hoping she was able to fly away every time you swatted, for her own sake.
but it's too late for you to acknowledge her existance. the world won't acknowledge yours any longer. not to say it did.
you can feel the blood seep out of your broken skin and you're hoping, for your last wish, she'll run down to you and collect you in her arms for the first and last time.
you die cold and alone.
inspiration has new ammunition for her next victim. love has a new tragedy to feed on.
history will repeat itself. it's inevitable. and if you think you're the first, you've got a lot to learn.
but, now, post-mortem consumes you into itself. and that could be a whole other story.
inspiration is a fickle dame.
her foot is in my face. she grinds me on the pavement and laughs at my sputtering words. then she leaves without a word.
she'll come later to clean the wounds and clean up the blood before spitting in your eye and saying it shouldn't be.
and she seems to especially enjoy pouring iodine into the cuts.
best friends with distraction.
who's always ranting on about needs and desires and unfulfilled dreams
she doesn't listen. passes the message onto us.
slips out the door.
for a smoke before saying "it's getting late" and walks down the lawn without another word, and no matter how hard you scream that you need her, and want her, and miss her even though she's right there, dancing in front of your eyes, it's as if she becomes deaf as soon as emotion runs high along with damage.
emotion turns to sitting in your bed on the best days for her to visit. but they've broken up a while ago, and reunions, though high with energy, are more rare than love nowadays. they always end just as quickly as they begin. and then she's smoothing out her dress and flipping her hair and taking a drag on her cigarette, and walking out the door. like she always does.
but not before kissing a napkin with her lips smeared with deep red, and she writes something below the mark. you're hoping it's her phone number and you're already worried about calling, and she turns it over, giving you what you think is a rare smile and pushes it towards you. you're itching to overturn it but refuse to until she's out the door, heels clicking like ringing in your ears, before you turn it back over and see her handwriting reads "we're not so sick in the head"
you itch in your bed, then, at night, sleepless. the napkin sits on your bedside table. you can feel her voice in your head, sitting on your mind, legs crossed and smiling the way she does. you pray for sleep to take you, but some after-hours time later, you find yourself pressing keys with clumsy, drowsy nerves jolting in your fingers. the plastic of the phone feels cool against your flushed cheek, so when it rings thrice, and clicks audibly, it is some sort of relief when you pale and heat. it's been answered but nothing travels across the airwaves. you grip the side of your bedframe and nothing escapes your throat, mouth gaping and ear pressed all too close to the tiny speaker.
you realize that this is exactly what happens every time, open space with nothing being sent across. the static scratches at your head and plants a tumor that you're pleading will take you before you admit defeat and uncertain end.
it's always pride that's at stake.
before it can be subjected to demoltion, you clumsily slam the phone down to its reciever. crawl into bed and curl into yourself.
you wake up at five am because of your haywire alarm clock that seems to take sadistic pleasure in ruining rare dreamless sleep that you don't run from. she's still there, in your head, leering images and malicious sounds.
distraction invites herself in.
she also comes with images and sounds, not all pleasant, not all destructive. and you end up watching the clock and every minute feels like a second spent, wasted, along with your last breath and last thought. because that is distraction's goal in life. all she wants is your time, but she's got blood-ties with greed. after a while, you find her sucking your hours and energy.
in your head, she's a high-class prostitute.
in reality, she's just the girl next door with too much malice in her head to even itself out into some form of safe destruction.
but that is the classic american tragedy, sweet girl left to fend for herself, world turning her cold and indifferent and forcing her to give up the one unworldly possession that used to define her and now is used against her.
such is the love triangle you've set yourself up in.
such is the headboard you find yourself diving headfirst into every morning and night.
such is the edge of the bar, the hems of dresses you're clinging onto far too many nights after work.
such is the blood and sweat and, inevitably, tears the you manage to keep in until the last moment when you think you're alright and it finally caves into you, your insides destroyed and crumbling.
the kind of shit people pay big money to find on canvases. if only a visit would be paid by that elusive devil that caused all this.
i hear the devil is dating her now. the one with sickeningly red lips who only wears cocktail dresses and sends out her laundry, ever eluding you and is determined never to give in. in that respect, you and she are quite alike.
except, you've already shown your willingness.
it's a curse not to forget the existance of something that keeps your soulessness away.
"it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all" was a promotional ad love's pr came up with to get more screen time.
if her ravishing looks and golden locks didn't get it for her first. but you've always got a bad apple in the bunch who is not swayed by that first look. they are the troublemakers that promote the truth people avoid. so they can greet the end of the world with open arms and their myths of jesus held high in their hearts. the troublemakers are love's favorite to sway. they always fall so hard in the end.
love is far from loving. love is a sadistic fuck who rules over us all and we're drones chanting her name constantly. it's where she get her kicks from. god forbid love actually loves--the world would unravel and split into millions of shards that can never be put back together no matter how many horses you kill to make glue.
love rules your triangle. how are you going to defeat her?
leave her out of the equation entirely. this is not love. this is what came of malice and desparation's child.
your life is bastardization at its fullest.
wedding bands and bells and the color white should never be associated with you.
i only serve to perpetuate.
triangles are the sharpest shape.
circles are the trickiest to create.
but they are the safest and the strongest and the smallest. the hold so much without creaking and cracking. they can hold love and distraction and malice and desperation along with hope and faith and promise and the future
but a circle can never hold that one with clicking heels and those damn red lips that never leave a stain on any champagne glass but only that one napkin and your neck
she leaves behind all notions of safety you ever hoped for.
you only notice this after you find yourself walking on the ledge of the highest window in your house.
and that's no time to remember the sanity you held before she sauntered in.
there's always that question of jumping or not, and as soon as you walk away you find her face in your head smiling a smile that screams 'i knew you wouldn't. i knew you couldn't. i knew you'll never have the courage'
and so you're caught constantly trying to prove yourself.
jumping is the answer to her smug smile. climbing off is the answer to love's promise.
but love is distant and she is now. and so you're standing there on that ledge with the wind blowing and the ledge becoming slick and you're praying your foot doesn't slip.
if you're going to jump, you actually want to jump. slipping would be self-defeating.
so you scratch your numb fingers at the windowpane wood, look down. raise a foot. hold your breath.
you want to cry. you want to cry so hard that you end up crying all the body fluids out of yourself. you want to scream so loud your throat ruptures and blood bubbles hot and heavy. you want you bleed out any sense of rejection and rage you've ever felt in your life.
because when you feel like this, this unseen pain you suffer through for all the promises that never came true, for all hope's trickery, for what inspiration has brought you to, you want to bleed like you do. you want to feel your soul sliding itself out through your veins until it grates your skin as it climbs out the largest gash you left on your body. the exit is inevitable. and you jump.
and you have never felt freer. and for a moment, you forget about the cold pavement below.
until the jagged black stones cut into the face of your pain, stab it right through the heart and fold its limbs up until it can fit inside any coffin. where it belives it belongs. where you've put it.
and in the last moments of your life you realize that you created the shapes you've hated for so long. and that there was a way out. that there was a happy ending.
regret is the last word on your lips.
she was the only one rooting in your corner.
she was your soccer mom, in a sense, which you always seemed to laugh at as she sat in the dug out in a cocktail dress. it was slightly ridiculous.
but she was the one who followed you to every game, every playoff, every showdown. she whispered in your ear. but you were too wrapped up in the jagged edges of your triangle. she was a fly on the wall to your destruction.
you're hoping she was able to fly away every time you swatted, for her own sake.
but it's too late for you to acknowledge her existance. the world won't acknowledge yours any longer. not to say it did.
you can feel the blood seep out of your broken skin and you're hoping, for your last wish, she'll run down to you and collect you in her arms for the first and last time.
you die cold and alone.
inspiration has new ammunition for her next victim. love has a new tragedy to feed on.
history will repeat itself. it's inevitable. and if you think you're the first, you've got a lot to learn.
but, now, post-mortem consumes you into itself. and that could be a whole other story.