Wednesday, January 30, 2013

things i love:

hot coffee in my favorite mug[with the stripes]
the sound of scratching my dogs head as she falls asleep
someone's thigh between my legs
a cigarette with wine, perfectly timed
a good 'pants' day
the sky right before it snows

you, still, obviously.
i have this theory that you don't fall in love with people but rather
places and maybe even the person you were
when you were with them. i have this theory, see,
that maybe people are places and that maybe you travel to 
their skin and their soul and their fingernails and their ear lobe 
and maybe when you see them you see blue christmas lights or a dirty dorm or hotel sheets.

you deserve better than me, dear.

and when you stop that love, when you throw the brake and you rip yourself from it-
you never really fall out because you never lose places and
you can't erase them and you can't visit again.
you stay in this state of constant limbo and never let their hand go 
and never reach for it and someone
wise once told me that the saddest thing was falling out of love
and they were right and they were wrong
because you can't fall out of 
what made you.

i think i'll love you forever
but thats okay. 

Friday, January 25, 2013

and i think i've been carving myself into something to show them, 
something breathtaking and it's not working because the paints
are all dried and cracked like a desert floor 
and i curve where i'm supposed to stand and what if someone is just born wrong.

it's shameful
to understand that you're as old as the sea and as soft
as a fledgling

i could write books about places i've been and seen
D.C. alone at seventeen, wasted and hollow and strung up by my ankles just
trying to make someone love me 
and it seems 
to be all it amounts to- trying to make someone love you in a way that 
you can't. 

breaking down in the butter aisle because i can't really control
anything that i thought i could. 
breaking down in the butter aisle because i fear i'm a stump and i'm supposed to be a tree
breaking down in the butter aisle because 
she is dying 
and i could have been her and she could have been me 
so easily.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

my dear readers,
i consider you confidants-
you know me better than anyone else.


the linoleum where i felt her eyes burning
again and the smoking tree on wall street.
someone's chest pressing into me and 
when i realized i was no longer angry 
in the subway station at 7:30.

mangy kittens that were free.
blinking cursors mocking me and crumpled news pages
stuffed into hollow finger tips
to keep their shape.

understanding that i was capable of cruelty and awkward conversations with a forgotten face
in line to eat.
the crushing weight of being free and the crushing weight of internal peace.
not being able to write for weeks

but it's okay, it's okay. 

Saturday, January 19, 2013

"we are one in the same" whisper the walls to the window 
but the window knows 
the window knows that the walls will never taste the sun and feels rather
bad for them so the window lies
about the view, ["it's decent, not much really, a few trees] and the window knows,
the window knows,
that sometimes a letdown is better than a longing.

"you shouldn't feel this way"
"yeah, but i do."

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

i think of the lark's nest on your back garden wall, by the shore. how waves lapped at the white-washed concrete and water stains like stripes leading up to their realm. a kingdom of tiny down feathers and sea salt and shit. hollowed out shells, sitting in a circle and babies that were 
never born, or born too late
or gone, regardless.

and i think of your bed as an empty nest too and of two strangers trying to fill it. 

"i believe i'll bury my daughter before she's 25."
her father throws down a napkin on a half finished plate and 
she throws down her napkin on a full plate and everyone else is thinking it but at least they don't
fucking rub it in,
like salt in a wound
except she doesn't eat salt
because of the calories

i met her Rylie in Sophomore year of highschool, I was best friends with her
sister and we instantly connected, picked each other out from across the room and
sure, I'd heard rumors of the girl who was
dragged away by Doctors during Theology class, sure, I'd heard
rumors about the girl thinner than a skeleton.

i never knew her healthy, she was always in a state of wilting, see- she was made of sticks
covered by skin
a circus tent sagging, caving in on itself [caving in on herself].
we used to sneak out of assemblies and the school mandated
masses to smoke cigarettes in her van. we thought it was so fucking cool to
rot together
see, she
never really thought she was good at much 
until this. i never really thought i was beautiful unless i was
man, the girl could starve, i'll give her that. she talked me through the night and rubbed the inside of my wrists with motherly eyes. we were kindred spirits, we wrapped ourselves in book pages and cradled each other's depression like Godparents, christened the tiny heads of our dual mental illnesses but. i could never do it as well as her, maybe i was weaker-
i broke
and then nailed pieces of myself back together and i started taking my pills and, in a way,
 i abandoned her three years ago. i became the traitor, the enemy. i became what we hated and she became
a spy, a walking corpse with make up and she paraded for her parents and she fell off the face of my earth for awhile. i moved to new york city, i figured out why everyone always believed in me. i believed in me.

what do you do when your best friend cries because her sister has turned their house into a funeral. 
what do you do when your best friend tells you that her sister is thinner than when they forced tubes down her throat. 
what do you do when your best friend tells you to visit her sister because she's been walking the line for 8 years and she's going to die soon. 
she's actually going to starve to death.
no, she's actually going to starve to death.

what do you say when someone no longer trusts you because of your success,
what do you say to someone who feels abandoned because of your recovery.

she feels anorexic weak now, can't always 
get out of bed
and i still know how her mind works and i'm positive that deep down
she's proud of that fact.(it's not okay)

"i believe i'll bury my daughter before she's 25."
she's 23.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

the clatter of laughter
a broken plate
callous with the evening ware and callous with your

Sunday, January 6, 2013

And it seems as though the walls pull you toward them during parties. As everyone socializes you merely stand, a little out of the crowd, awkwardly waiting for someone to magically appear and invite you into a conversation- which would actually be terrible because you haven't had any words for awhile. She's been gone for awhile. You grimace with the champagne, dry and cheap and singeing all the way down. It's not as though you hate these people for being happy-; except that you do. You honestly do. Especially the woman from 4B who laughs with her eyes and her husband who constantly touches his ring making sure it's still there. You really hate that. You're not anti-social, you just don't enjoy the company of anyone who isn't her (and now, in light of the current situation, you suppose that you hate her the most out of all.) Tonight is good for you, you need to meet people and get out of that stuffy apartment and into this stuffy bar where everything is just about the same except for a thousand times more socially terrifying. 

"Can I sit?" and it's stupid really because you've already lowered yourself in the chair before asking but she doesn't object. An empty chair. A quiet girl. A brief respite from the music and lights and fake cheerfulness. She merely looks down her eyelashes and nervously raises the cup to her lips. "So... what do you do for fun?" 

And it's probably the stupidest question you've ever asked another person and you can't even believe the words have left your lips and out of habit you raise your hand to your mouth as if to stop yourself from making it any worse. You look down, she's got pink toenails. Why does that hurt? The shade of them, the fact that they're so precise and perfect and you think that she must have spent an hour on them. Maybe she even messed up, had to redo it, maybe she thought that tonight someone would look at her feet and fall in love with her. Why does that hurt? Why does that put a lump in your throat to think about? 

"I, uh." You'd almost forgotten about the question from 38 seconds ago. She's actually going to answer. "I like to call the police on the couple upstairs." You almost choke on your drink. "I mean, 4B. I get bored sometimes and it's kind of funny to call the cops to report strange noises. They're so happy, I think it's unhealthy to be that happy with someone. Even if you love them. Things need to happen."

"I agree, in a sense." And now she's opened a book she can't close. "But the happiness has to outweigh the sadness. Or the fights. Maybe they just feel secure, maybe he makes her feel important."

"She must know how important she is, I mean come on. They live together. He has a job too, I've seen him leave early in the morning, he can't just spend all his time with her."

"He doesn't need to spend all his time, just a fraction. Maybe she feels like she's being left behind, or that she's become an obligation. Maybe she feels like he talks to her out of habit and not out of love. She probably feels pretty stupid to have fallen in love with him in the first place. She's probably coming to terms with how stupid it was to even meet him... because look how close they are. How it's going to tear her apart when he leaves."

"Who says he's leaving? He looks pretty happy, don't you think she looks happy? She has to be happy."

"I mean, yes. She's happy when he's next to her and miserable when he's not. Probably."

"Thats not fair to either of them."

"You're telling me." 
And you take another sip and wince a little more and she re-adjusts her purse and thats when you catch sight of her fingernails. Bitten down to the cuticle, remnants of a carefully hidden anxiety problem, a nervous tick that you would bet no one else notices. But you do, you're quite good at noticing things that others don't and thats why they used to call you romantic (you called it pathetic.). How adorable it is that she bites her nails and you realize how small her hands really are, how the fingers are thin and callouses spring up on the tips of her left. How the freckles spread up from her wrists all across her, her nose, her sliver of shoulder, her forehead. Other girls were plain blank pages and she was a fucking portrait. You have a strange urge to kiss the spot under her earlobe. 

"Maybe 4B is beyond repair. Maybe they should just give up." And the second you say the words she turns her head away, tilting up slightly. You see the literal sting of them and you're glad in a way. Glad that she cares even if it's just shown in the misery. Maybe that makes you a bad person. It probably makes you a bad person. She's blinking away a glaze on her eyes and the corner of her mouth starts to quiver. Her voice shakes.

"Maybe he doesn't want to give up." Sucker punch. The overwhelming natural instinct to protect the weaker, protect things that are precious.

"Maybe she doesn't either." She turns to you fully, for the first time and makes direct eye contact. Those eyes, they get so green when she cries and in them- something searching. A pained hopefulness, a longing for something in yours that she's scared to death she might not find. But she does, she finds it because it's there and always will be. 

"Can we please go home?" she asks.
"But the party isn't over yet."

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

i guess i'm a little different in the way that
home is other people-
a collection of souls 
that fit like warm slippers.