i feel as though i should take a little time to thank a frequent, long-time reader, S. if anyone gets bored of my egocentric ramblings, definitely go check her out. i don't read many blogs on this site, but her's is one of them-
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
i wanted to be a;
veterinarian, a singer.
when i was six years old.
i wanted to live in a mansion
on the moon.
now i pay too much money for not enough space in
West Harlem, Washington Heights.
each day they raise flags and
seventy square feet
when i speak the words bounce off the walls,
circle the light fixtures
like confused moths.
theres not enough room for conversation so i
tend to keep quiet.
i am 22 and i see now
reality is that most people
never become what they wanted to be
when they were six years old.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
i will drink all of the orange juice and put the empty carton back in the refrigerator
i don't know why, i won't think about it... this won't be pre-meditated,
sometimes i just do things.
i will forget to take the trash out, often, even if it means lifting my heavy shoes over the bags to get to
the front door, i will happily pass by it without a
i will respond with the wrong facial expression or laugh nervously when you're sad or
dye my hair red without warning you.
i will come home at two thirty A.M. with:
-a new sofa
-a newborn kitten with twenty six toes
i will come home at two thirty A.M. with that excited look on my face and try to
drag you out of bed.
i will also pick up more orange juice or devise a system of pulleys
for the trash
i will buy you strawberries instead of flowers and hold you all night after a particularly painful
i will wake up without a fight at two thirty A.M. for a bottle and you will wake, hours later, to find me on the couch with a baby-creature sleeping on my chest.
i will come home at two thirty A.M.
and it will be to you.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
i tore pages out of a magazine the night i left her, i threw
several things into the river,
forgot them with tequila.
my greatest fault has always been a penchant for pain, the attraction to
agony. i shower myself in cold misery and rake the bottom of my
soul for dead bodies and skeletons and anything that still has the ability to hurt.
why? i mean, it's no secret that i'm a bit of a masochist (in bed, first and foremost) so what
happens to a child to make them this way? when did i start hating
my own happiness, when did the obsession with the dust-covered, still weeping wound of the
i am the kid with a stick poking the dead bird
except i am also the dead bird
and the stick.
does that make sense?
didn't think so.
i believe we make ourselves hurt emotionally because, deep down, we are frightened of
joy. we don't believe we deserve good things and when something goes wrong, we cling
to the comfort of something we predicted from the start.
you defuse a bomb only to mourn the failed explosion so you start
to study explosions, you start to imagine blistered skin and you
blame yourself for letting it happen.
you spend your entire life in guilt for something that is over, why?
how does this change, how do we fix this?
i'm still trying to figure that one out.