Saturday, March 15, 2008

Out from under the bus

She had one of those contagious smiles.
Filled with sarcasm and guilt.
The kind of smirk that made me wonder if she had more to offer than a handshake.

We walked in silence, tiptoeing around the subject.
Our paths had crossed this street several times
while we had worn one another's shoes.
That was how close we had been at twenty.

This time it was going to get harder, the streets were now concrete.
There would be no what if, how about now, how about never agains.
This was us, in our own shoes, forgetting what it had been like to walk in the other's.

I'm not sure what brought her here in the rain seventeen years later.
Her lips were just as familiar as the jasmine in her hair. I wanted her to keep me entertained in the rain.
Away from it all.
On the safer side of the street, she and shes and theys could never splatter me on this new road. I've walked too far...

"We just didn't have enough time to stand under the streetlights waiting for busses to run us down." she whispered.
"So we threw ourselves at them, one after another, just waiting for them to slow down to see us." I never did care to look at where they all were going.

She came to tell me she had missed this bus. It was only a matter of time before there will be another.
So we stood shaking hands politely in the rain, learning lessons we had learned before.
It is softer on the other side of the road.
So we can relax for now, patiently, in the grass watching the world full of stinking buses pass us by.
we have so much more time than this.

crap in a hat i have to finish this thought later.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

clips of my 26th year

9:20 AM - clips
Current mood: betrayed

It was one of those cold days in the park. We stood in a puddle of melting snow and smoked with certainty. We had a true dislike for each other despite our history.
His sister really couldnt do anything about it. She remained hopeful we would give it a 37th try. But we were smokers now. And that was devastatingly as disgusting as the way he felt about me.She had hoped we would have been one of those happily ever after stories. The kind like she was living. In a house with a fence and a dog that shits on the deck. She had one of those boyfriends who never cleaned up the shit.
But I just don't believe anyomore.
I use to dream of all the things that little girls dream of.
I never knew what it was I did differently than the rest of em. Why I couldnt' bring us to succeed.
Why I had to be the fool that fell face first.
So I had to distract the others from staring at my broken face.I did it by blowing smoke in everyones ill little faces and taking jabs at the lives they lived.
I had changed. I no longer dreamt the dreams that we have to start hiding in our 25th year. No more hope for homes with fences and white dresses. No chance at the kind of comsuming uncomfortable inconvenient, all a girl can think about before she falls asleep kind of love.
Jealousy is the root of all evil and it was all I held on to. Angry that I had thought I had what they flaunted. I'm so sick of all the rings and shiny things. I'll pay someone to just hold my cold little hand and lie to me again.

26. jaded. cold. alone. bored. hopeless.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Shoe fetish

4:18 AM - Why Adam P. says I'm not worthy of finding true love
Current mood: cold
Category: Writing and Poetry

I remember the embarassment. Of being found out.
To know that someone has seen the places I hide what is most private to me.
I'll come out with everything. My pj's are under my pillow and I am shy when i brush my teeth. I try not to chew doritos in anyone's ears and I swear to tell the truth.
I'll always want to explain myself. To everyone. I'll be found out eventually. I'll start telling everyone everything and hope for the best. I am the daughter who is most hated. I am the failure the fraud and the whore for wearing red hand me down shorts when I was ten. Even though it was my mother who chose my clothing, I was a whore for putting it on.
I use to reach for her in my sleep. And cry when she was not there. I would wait up all night waiting for her to come home and sleep the moment she walked in. Was it comfort or fear? I'm finding out it was both.
I was the girl in class who could not explain my eyes. Who dared not borrow your pencil.
I'll never ask for anything I cannot do myself. I'll never set myself up for that kind of dissapointment and I'll swear to tell you the truth. and duck when you find me out.
I'll find excuses for your every inexcusable behavior and somehow it will all be my fault.
Thank God for my life and thank god that I am here. Thank god that I KNOW without a doubt that anyone I will EVER love will not be there for me tomorrow.
these are the examples I've been shown
take me or leave me. accept me or leave me.
Either way you'll all leave me.
The person you see does not exist. I am nothing but a constant reminder of sadness and my fears are on my sleeves. My loyalty never bends, breaks or fades I'll tolerate anything and it will be all I know.
I have a shoe fetish.
Because I have spent my whole life looking down on myself

In God's hands

Saturday, November 17, 2007
7:01 PM -
everything under my chin
Current mood: guilty
Category: Writing and Poetry

its an appropriate amount of numb. A measurable tangible amount of non feeling. or not. god i dont know what i feel.
Suicide? god no, how could you, she didnt its not true. please take it back.

If I werent numb already I would be by now. What am I?
There is nothing brushing against my face again.
nothing against the cheek i cant feel and the chin i cant hold up on my own, i am melting into my own tingling nerving nonexistance.
I have no one to sit with me while I am still.
I am desparate to feel it. Hit me, once twice or six times.
Pinch me awake to function. Roll me over and let me breathe. Give her back.
I am at a loss for words. I feel too much loss to actually feel.
now what
I picture myself standing in front of someone, anyone taller than I.
Standing with my face in his hands looking down.
The numb side of my jaw cupped in the small palm of his right hand.
My hair just brushing the top of his hand as he holds my ear between bony fingers.

All I know is, there is a thumb on my face, and I should be aware of so much more.
And he becomes you, as I becomes one defiantly fragile part of we.
And we are just an energy waiting for your love to keep us.

We stand at her grave with empty eyes hoping to take it all in. This bigger picture, this bigger part of your plan. Can you visualize the guilt on our shoulders?
I never want this honest moment to end.
See right through me as we become we all.
Hold us there until I can feel the pressure to crumble to my own knees before you.
Come with me to the floor and hold me there.
Hold my chin up while I have no thoughts. Feel my warm tears?

Take the pain of those years I've seen and those I could not, can not, hope to not have to--- help. God help her, and we and him, her again, us and I.
We need you right now.

yesterdays mascara

Tuesday, November 20, 2007
8:11 AM -
yesterdays mascara
Current mood: angry
Category: Life

i dont recognize her.
this person i saw this morning.
swollen lips, red face, drippy nose and soaking wet sleeves.
he told me, in a song, then i decided not to listen.
im still trying to take off yesterdays mascara
with my fingers.
because now every one of my childhood memories, about all things beautiful, has been taken away
i have nothing left but sadness.
guess i better get to looking up those directions.
cuz i gotta get thru this alone.
but at least even i dont recognize me to notice.

Saturday, March 1, 2008


Wednesday, February 06, 2008
4:43 PM - fragility
Current mood: selective
Category: Writing and Poetry

Bruce carries my comfort, like sand, in the front pocket of his blue jeans with the lint and shiny pennies.

When he thinks about it for awhile, he lets me admire what it would be like to hold the comfort with him.
I get lucky enough to carry a few grains of sand for a few days at a time. Just long enough to for me to feel it, remember it, crave it.
Then he takes it all away with short notice and cold hands.
Sometimes, I get to carry the pennies, too. But most of the time I get lint with a little comfort in there somewhere. It's up to me to pick it all apart.
He tells me the pennies are lucky.
And lucky is how I feel.

Until I remember.
That is not all he's said.
I feel like it slips little by little through the seems of his pants. If only I could hold it for awhile and keep it safe... I'd take such good care...
But he said he doesnt want this much.
And I should really listen.

So I watch admirably instead.

He has those careful, quick fingers. They linger in his pockets while I wait like a loyal pet. Hopeful. Worried. Consumed with the anticipation of probably, maybe, sometime soon, and possibilities. There seems to be so much more than dirty rocky gritty *sand*. Why let it slip?
Soon it'll be all over the floor!
Sweep. Sweep. It's so darn beautiful it makes me ill.

Each time he digs deeper, he loses a little bit here. A little bit there. A Little more on the floor and I'm still watching. Sweeping it under another rug.
I wonder how many times I will watch wordless and increasingly skeptical.
I sure hope we can learn to share soon.
I'm certainly not going to become a maid who ends up collecting lucky pennies hoping to get lucky for once.
I'm looking for more.

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