i feel…

nauseous, drowsy, violated, angry. and cold. really really cold. this too shall pass [well, not the cold part, at least not for awhile, i'm assuming].

this weekend

This weekend I learned the importance of watching your drink at the bar. Well, more the importance of not letting strange men buy you drinks and walking away before they’re made. And accepting the drink ten minutes later, without question. I’ve always been extremely careful about things like this, but the one time I didn’t really think about it was the one time I should have been more aware. Baaaad weekend. But thank GOD for certain people who are present in my life and don’t judge and go out of their way to help me [stay safe and alive, in this case] and care about me enough to take care of my pathetic extremely sick self the day after. Even with puke in my hair. It’s just scary to think about the possible consequences of these situations without said people around, and how the night could have turned out very differently had I been with a different group of people. Ehhhhh. Learning everyday.

it’s a funny story, actually.

i’m constantly pouring tequila and wine down my throat, in an unconscious effort to numb who knows what feeling. it’s becoming something that happens without any thought at all. we slept in so many hotel beds, said so many things we thought we meant, but when it came down to being honest and whole, none of those things made a difference. you’re one of those hole in the wall people that i just can’t get out of my head, especially when you walk down the hall and i see confidence pouring out of every pore, every vein, only me. everything is temporary. you’re exhausting when you smile because i can’t stop staring, and when i end up in a stoned daze you’re there to awkwardly snap me out of it. i have a ball of frustration growing in my chest, spreading its wings and taking over everything that i do and feel. it’s the most uncomfortable pain in the sense that it never disappears, only lessens and grows like a terribly constructed rollercoaster in the middle of nowhere. i want someone to walk through cemeteries and abandoned houses with, is that so weird?

stop these bells.

yeah you’re so cool with your cigarettes and bowls and wigs and bruises [mine are better], your stupid bookshelves filled with obscure names that make you feel pretentiously important, that antique chandelier and, what, are you too attractive to wash your hair? i feel like i’m at some creepy carnival in the middle of nowhere, standing in the middle of a field surrounded by people in concentric circles, manifested in the random happenings of my dreamworld. i just want to drink something, smoke something, swallow something, bite something, wrap my mouth around mystery. the only thing that i can be certain of is that someday i will cease to exist. i am still attracted to the wrong people, somehow always drawn to the one black soul in the room, bad habits circling his head like leaves on a windy day. i can’t help that i like unique faces, things, people, adventures, designs, music, art in all its forms – to you, it’s all strange and i’m a fuckin weirdo for liking this and THAT, i’m crazy. you deem people psychotic without pause, white suburbia is normal, everything else is absurd and you are ignorant in the most obnoxious ways. i love you anyway, at least i think i do, and sometimes it’s so hard. silly me, with my eight tabs simultaneously open, staring blankly into space, thinking about time passing and terrified of where i’ll be in a year, always wanting to go over to the one guy in that smoky bar, the one who is alone and keeps walking into the back alley to distribute pills, beautiful substances to strangers with ease. don’t you see what i see? giving will make you smile, getting will make you smile, and then one day giving will make you cry because you just gave too damn much and you have no idea who you are anymore. it makes no sense until one night when you find yourself waiting on the corner at two am, it’s cold and beautiful, and you’re overwhelmed by the strangest urge to run into the middle of the street and scream at the top of your lungs. the harsh wind is chaotic and perfectly painful until two drunken idiots come up behind you, touch your shoulders and slur in your left ear and you don’t know where to put the fear that has just been poured all over you.

ice feet

two girls are standing outside. they could be twins with those beautiful black strands flowing down their backs, blowing all over the place, wispy but strong; cloves in hands, then mouths, offering their elegance to the wet wind. they stare into the dark sky, searching for something they’ll never find, at least not there. after the lights dim, they slowly walk in opposing directions, away from each other without the slightest pause for a glance backward, heels clacking loudly in the street. they’ll never see each other again, these things never last. nothing ever lasts, even with all wires exposed, mouths open and hands tightly clasped together. you want to say I FUCKING LOVE YOU but your mouth’s dry and your teeth hurt and your throat’s closed off and then your stomachs doing backflips all the way home while you cry silently and long to cut the frustration out of your skin. now where are you gonna put your words?
he’s sick of always checking the time and wants to throw this stupid watch away. tick tock tick tock ticktockticktock, constantly reminding him of each second that passes, each drop of blood that flows one way, then the other way, in a circle, tick tock tick tock blood drop blood drop. it would be difficult to make a life out of this bullshit. there used to be a cat, but now there are just balls of dust collecting in the corner, stacked on top of each other like seventh chords, climbing all the way to the ceiling filled with holes and stained with watermarks from the lovers upstairs. each time they soak, the tub overflows and paints a pretty little picture on the floor, a lonely picture on his ceiling. there also used to be a girl. they used to be the ones painting the pictures on the floor but then she swallowed a few too many and it was all over. she used to warn him about that day but he never listened, and now when he looks back at all the words he shoved back into her mouth, he wishes they would have jumped off that building together holding hands, maybe painted one last picture on the ground together. staring at the rows of scripts on the crooked bookshelf, he realizes that nobody’s left and nothing’s considered selfish anymore. reach. on the telly, a girl lays down on the bed, a girl with a cat, a face with a smile. hope. there’s too much fucking dust in this room, he thinks to himself, as he gets up and begins to look for the broom.

experience

We are separated from and related to one another physically.  Persons as embodied beings related to each other through the medium of space.  And we are separated and joined by our differing perspectives, educations, backgrounds, organizations, group loyalties, affiliations, ideologies, socioeconomic class interests, temperaments.  These social “things” that unite us are by the same token so many *things*, so many social figments that come between us.  But if we could strip away all the exigencies and contingencies, and reveal to each other our naked presence?  If you take away everything, all the clothes, the disguises, the crutches, the grease paint, also the common projects, the games that provide the pretexts for the occasions that masquerade as meetings – if we could meet, if there were such a happening, a happy coincidence of human beings, what would now separate us?

-R.D. Laing

where I’m from

Where I’m from, things stay hidden, they aren’t real and barely penetrate the surface. I can see how sad this makes him underneath the feigned blankness of dark eyes, and when he whispers in my ear I think about somebody else, pretending I’m somewhere completely different, existing only in my hidden world. I’ve created a dreamland for myself, constantly staring at fluffy cloud formations and dancing over broken leaves, being with people I shouldn’t be with, thinking about the days of soul selling. Here, it always smells like burnt apple pie, and I can see the smoke rising up from dark hair as I attempt to create something satisfactory. Better. We’re all twisted up in the morning, limbs tangled in comfortable knots, hair effortlessly teased, eyes tired, bruises forming along with slow smiles. I could stare at you forever. Pale arms wrapped around cold skin, shivering, keeping my eyes closed as you throw up the blinds and flood my tiny room with glaring luminescence, trying to keep me warm in the most uncomfortable ways. I know you don’t understand my minimalistic nature or why I constantly talk about a year of mornings, but you’ve got a bed in a bookstore and that’s all that matters. I’m in a trancelike state as I warm myself under this large blanket, closing my eyes and feeling the heat drift slowly out of the dusty vents, feeling nothing substantial and pretending that my hands aren’t icy. Love will save us all, but nobody’s ready to be saved. The sun is disappearing early these days, bottles of red liquid are rapidly consumed, words are difficult to find – I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to write but seem to have nothing but boxes filled with excuses and papers covered in spirals and poorly-executed sketches.
I think you’re far from being a good person, but I loved how you’d laugh while witnessing my simultaneous disgust and fascination with certain things.  I’d like to believe that you’re not as lost as I am, as distant from reality or in denial of what you want and feel, but the way your eyes close when you try to speak to me displays your genuine attempts at masking the truth. I never judge, only want more, mostly from myself, and random cycles of honest thought have made me realize how truly different we are. I refuse to go through a twenty-second year feeling defeat, disappointment, or regret, and you are drowning in a broth of genuine dissatisfaction, throwing away moments that are potentially beautiful and having the ability to change the patterns that have so unfortunately shaped your life. You don’t read, you don’t speak, you don’t care, but I can see how removed from your ideal life you are now and the way that loneliness clings to your skin, holding on so easily, never having to fight back.
I remember the big window and looking out over the cemetery, thinking about full hearts, altruism, slow compassion, rough hands, soft eyes. Big windows are only worth something if you can look through the glass without thinking about the pain and hatred that people feel toward themselves and others, and I’m not sure that’s genuinely possible anymore. I’m thinking of the time you wanted toast with the butter divisively sliding toward opposite corners and I was too lazy to look for the toaster, the time you bruised me twice in the exact same place and looking at it made me smile for a week, the time you were too drunk to hold in the words spilling from your mouth and were so embarassed the next morning, the time I fell on the ground and let anxiety overtake me, not breathing right, not doing anything right, the times we smoked in the bathtub and covered all the possibilities. I’m thinkin thinkin thinkin and I’m realizin that in the end, it’s all a stupid game and I don’t want to play anymore.