The original one.
(more) *Puts on cap, turns it backwards.*
I wanna be the very best,
Like no one ever was! *dun, dun, dun, dun-dun*
To catch them is my real test,
To train them is my cause!
I will travel across the land,
Searching far and wide! *dun, dun, dun, dun-dun*
Teach Pokémon to understand,
The power that's inside!
Pokémon! Gotta catch 'em all, it's you and me~
I know it's my destiny!
Ooooooh~, you're my best friend,
In a world we must defend!
Pokémon! Gotta catch 'em all, a heart so true~!
Our courage will pull us through~!
You teach me, and I'll teach you!
Gotta catch 'em all!
Gotta catch 'em all!
It's an urge to go there. I want to be close to you.
So... I linger before "you".
I have to do it. It's an itch. I must scratch. It's unconscious and deliberate.
I sit cross legged
grab each one
(more) hold it in my fingers
stare at it
examine each detail in order to remember...
the moment, try to recall the smell and the sounds and the...
I'm smile down at "you".
Then grab another... another... then another
My closed lip smile slowly... ever so slowly fades... to pierced lips, full throat, silent tears...
Ah! But I linger. Linger. Linger...
Quickly stand, bend over, shove "you" back into the tattered box, onto the closet shelf, close the door, grab the vacuum and allow the loud noise to drown "you" out. Drown "you" out... drown "you" out... please, My GOD! drown this pain out!!! I can't stay there. I can't stay in that emotion, where the collections of "you" whisper, speak, scream. Screaming that last into long painful days of sobbing in my car.
I smelled "you" yesterday. That day was hard. I thought the smell of "you" was gone for good. But there "you" were. As if you were there beside me. I wrapped it around me and closed my eyes and screamed your name loudly and repeated it over and over until my throat was raw. As "you" held onto me. I breathed you in and screamed like I had never done before. I screamed so loud that I didn't hear my heart shattering in all the places that I glued back together.
She rested her head on the pillow and draped the afghan over her body. Snuggling into the cushions of the couch, she began to count all the pieces in her collection in her mind like others counted sheep.
Somewhere in the kitchen, she could hear him rummaging around for(more) a kettle in the cupboards. She was tempted to yell that it was in the bottom left but she liked hearing the clinking of glassware and imagining his brows furrowed in concentration. She listened for the faucet - ah, there was the sound of rushing water hitting metal - and thought back on her collection. She had accrued many broken hearts in the past year, and she had kept pieces of them, every one of them, because you can't just forget a person you once loved. She wondered if the man in her kitchen right now would someday just be a piece in her collection. She hoped not.
Drifting in and out of sleep, she awoke to the sound of gurgling water. But it was not the boiling tea kettle; it was rain, pattering against the glass window and collecting in the gutter. She lay where she was and listened for him, but she heard nothing. So she closed her eyes and began counting the pieces in her collection once more.(less)
an old mason jar sitting on a bookshelf with two locks of hair curled up inside of it, black as night, a relic, a phylactery.
cold toes getting clammy in thick woolen socks. the cold becomes wet, pervasive. sinks into the bones.
the acidic smell of(more) a body unwashed. onions and old food hiding inside the fabric of worn clothing. a barrier of odor, nothing good can come inside this place. the stickiness between the folds of skin on your face when you havent washed or truly woken up yet. goddamn.
deep grooves between your teeth, let the tongue slide over them, through them. carve and carve again, wandering spirits restless hearts tired eyes.
fear and envy, there is no room for true love. a stone building with no windows, immaculately constructed. a prison? an archive. a collection. but the collection goes unnoticed, unvisited. the gardens outside the black box were unwelcoming, the advertising agency in charge of generating tourism never overcame its financial setbacks. the place festered. and in the darkness and in the stale air and in the absence of affectionate eyes, the collection grew restless, grew sentient, grew malicious. oozes and odors and smokes and ribbons of things that writhe like centipedes, give it time and it comes together, a braid, a ball. something wicked stalks the halls now, and in the lost hours of the moon, you can hear it barking.
a monologue in scratching noises. the vocal chords have snapped.
ive lost my way and im not sure i want to backtrack anymore. what good is it to get my feet back on the path when the problems all lie within the air we breathe.
my hands are covered in tiny white scales and they lock into position before i can stop myself.(less)