i wanted to go by my middle name in a new, strange place but couldn't fathom the flesh of it. i couldn't picture myself on a proper adventure. hidden, instead, behind my lenses.
i couldn't have an original thought in my he(more)ad if i tried. my brain is on fire with possibilities, making it impossible. i want to quadruple myself and send each clone off into the world and do something differently. i wonder who would really win.
i was standing with my guy, his arm hard around me and his soul hard through the room. she was staring at me with big green eyes and a soulless bmw of a man on her arm. i wondered what really mattered. (less)
the train smelt like roadkill that had froze outside and been dragged into my car. the accessibility coach rep read the numbers of the cars that wouldn't open at eglinton station like a lottery draw. I didn't get it. I didn't get much. "first day of my life" started(more) playing and I pictured myself hanging from the top railing of the grandiose staircase that ran from basement to second storey of my parents' house. and then I thought I didn't want to upset their memories of their first real home together. (less)
yesterday was easy until i realized i was easily replaceable. your layers of lost love used to appeal to me - thought i could reverse the trend and be a standout from your crowded crowd. i am a layer now. keep layering us on until we're buried so close(more) you can't distinguish your own sources of anguish any longer.
possessive, yet listless.
loving, yet loathing.
did our love have meaning or was it packed tight with emotion?
we bonded over and began in tough romantic times. we ended in a tough romantic time. what could have been expected? (less)
why do we open up so easy? i'm not accustomed to this level of honesty. it instills a warm feeling to know the truth all the time. but then, some truths bring pain and sadness. trust builds and breaks with ongoing honesty. it builds stronger, breaks harder.
(more) i want to know everything about you and your life and i'm scared you won't like what you see within mine. (less)
"i'd like to hangout sometime," he says.
"do you want to hangout right now?!"
"hey, if it's too soon we can hang some other time."
"16 candles is on demand if that's any incentive."
"see ya soon!"
we watch 80s and 90s tv til 5 am.
"er, do you want to sleep on the couch or?"
"uhm, it's up to you. i don't mind either way."
"i'm gonna brush my teeth," he says.
"i should too. i, uh, carry this with me when i travel. oral hygiene and all that!"
i'd packed a toothbrush because I knew.
we stood in his dirty bathroom and brushed our teeth side by side.
the laughter rung out as we made eye contact.
"it just occurred to me how strange this is."
"i'm not even thinking about it," i said, spitting a tiny bit into his scummy sink.
he left the bathroom and i spit out the remaining gob of toothpaste.
i went into his room and made him look away when i changed into his pajamas. how old were we?
he kissed me with a soft urgency and kept asking me if he tasted like smokes. (less)
we got rained out in the winter. my skin thanked the warm, moist air and the tickling sun after rain shining through the glass.
pieces of stuff and things lay strewn around my room, dusty. why did I need all this stuff? no one can give any of this(more) shit meaning except for me. I should throw it all out. the dead can't appreciate the collection of this stuff. the future generations of me will less than appreciate it. I'm throwing it all out and replacing it with warn, moist air and tickling sunshine. (less)
he wasn't ready for me. he met me at the cliff where reason eroded and dreams flew high. we rejoiced in sacred evenings crowded around a computer screen or gathered around a dying tealight at the dive by his house. i'd order a beer, he'd order a beer. i'd(more) swallow a drop and pass it off to him. i didn't need more beer.
escape artists. hiding away in pain but bringing it out in one another.
now my brow won't un-furrow. my hair feels like greasy rags. he's not ready for me.
"sometimes i don't want poetry," he said.
"i can't think in prose. there's a film over my brain again," my head.
"you're making me fall for you again. you're so beautiful, so strange, so lovely."
romance is short-lived. love is the answer. (less)
"would he have made it if i didn't do those things?"
we're fine, i'm fine, you're fine, she's fine.
if i didn't know him, would i be moving out?
(more) if i knew - if i knew more, would i have known him?
the pink over my eyes, seriously misleading my interpretation of everything. he wasn't what i thought. or was he exactly how he'd portrayed it?
monday was blessed but then tuesday he came home early and bought a bottle of wine with money he'd borrowed from me because his brother asked for my number at a parkdale dive two weeks before. i took it. he texted me. i replied. i deleted his number.
nothing ever happened. but it opened a can of worms for him. a big, fat can o' worms that he climbed into and let consume him. i barely hear a word from him.
sleeping, not eating, not living properly. not doing it right. so wrong. so wrong. things were going well. he couldn't let it be. he had to turn inward. he had to think too much, to the tipping point. and here we are. (less)
humans weren't created equally or evenly. throw em in the bone machine, like products on a conveyor belt. capitalism isn't so far away from our roots after all. it's all in the genetic makeup. sex is an act of consumer culture. we're always fighting for an easy finish. we're(more) always competing in the financial draw. it isn't easy but we're living it and it's cracking our bones and shaking em and breaking em. (less)
abrupt and pain-ridden, he was. i knew but couldn't disengage soon enough and was swallowed up instead. my safety was off. he was a gunshot.
he served himself up on a silver platter. my writer's bone tingled every time he told stories of homelessness on the coast or(more) ODing in the party corner, only kept alive by chet faker, or waking up naked in the hall with nothin' but an empty wallet. i scratched the surface a tinge and the fake paint chipped right off and into my little hands. his stories were truths. his scars were huge and real and looked like blisters i could pop. i was afraid to touch his self-injury, to really feel something close to what he felt - to somehow be inflicted with his irrational bi-polar depression, anxiety and instability.
he played himself like a record. and i kept the record playing. i flipped it over, set it right, adjusted the volume to my tiny ears, flipped it over. on repeat. let's play it again. let's spin around with your story. let's pretend you've never done this before so i can feel a little special when the needle cracks.
you are a gunshot. your beacon is the crazy sorrow you been hiding away but it can't hide for long - days, days. heroin threats and spitting on the faces of your friends. spurring abuse on me after we could barely say we knew a thing about on' another. keeping me awake with threats of pill indulgence and needle play.
'there she goes again,' they said. blanket term, that 'they.' all her friends kept thinking she'd never get it right. pieces of optimism forming a round, melted glass pot so full in her arms, only to be stolen away by the sadness - always unknown to her but riding(more) along under the surface of her life. smoking her on the hard ground. pot crashing, smashing into what it always was. tiny fragments of loss, sadness, depression. in her midst. always in her midst.
those positive boys, they just won't do. they don't get my caring heart like the negative ones. those negative boys, they just won't do. they trample over and outta my soul and don't even know it. (less)