Irony is a sadistic bitch. In the past, I've observed that I must therefore have a masochistic sense of humor.
I'm not laughing now.
I'm not laughing at all.
And Irony is at her happiest. (Turnabout's the fairest form of play.)
He says he loves me. He wants to think he does, more than anything, but he doesn't. He's infatuated. I question whether he even cares about me that much, but I'll be generous.
"Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?"
Beseechingly, on his knees, gaze skyward, while I lay crumpled, struggling to breathe, not two feet away.
Later, he said he was sorry, but meant in general, for upsetting me. His sentiment remains. ("Why couldn't You send me a nice Christian girl?")
I know I should take that as my signal, cut my losses and leave. No one who actually loves me could say such a thing.
But Irony is a sadistic bitch.
I love him.
I am far from laughing.
6/28/11
6/27/11
The Essence of Evanescence
I paused at the corner, caught for a moment.
In the growing twilight, the street sign stood out starkly, a 3D figure in an abruptly 2D landscape. A thin ray of sunlight leaked through the storm clouds, making the raindrops over the letter "S" sparkle. The storm was passing, giving way to the summer night.
I don't know if my companion noticed the brief hesitation in my step as the scene, street sign, storm, and summer, arrested me. He may have simply chosen not to comment.
Regardless, I don't think he experienced the same sudden sensation that we were in the midst of a story. The world does not offer up such visuals without some sense of purpose.
He tugged at my hand, our fingers interlaced, and I brought my eyes back to his face.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered, his voice as low as the distant purr of thunder.
We turned the corner onto the next street, leaving the sign behind.
"A dollar for your insights," I replied, nearly automatically. A fortune for your desire, I finished silently. I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank.
He rolled his eyes at me and drew me closer, his breath rasping over the shell of my ear even as we continued to walk.
"I can't provide insights into what you won't tell me, dear," he murmured.
I shivered, despite the summer heat.
"I know," I whispered drily, aware that his relative position to me would prevent him from catching the words. "I don't have a dollar on me, either, so it's all for the best."
I watched a lightning bug wink in and out of existence over the marker indicating the path to the neighborhood park.
A transitory bug over a transitory spot, in the midst of a transitory moment.
"Hey," I asked at full volume, stepping away from him slightly. "Do you want to go down to the park?'
He blinked at me. Where summer made me sprightly, it merely made him sleepy.
"Uh... sure," he acquiesced.
I grinned, and now I was the one tugging at his hand, our fingers interlaced.
The lightning bug flashed again as we passed, a vibrant strobe among the steam rising off the asphalt trail.
We were immediately encased in the scent of honeysuckle, warm and sweet, and I slowed again, allowing him to draw even with me. The summer would pass soon enough - I should savor it.
"I thought we weren't going to go this far," he commented, a little nervously, but with a thin thread of cautious delight spun through his tone. "The day will be over soon."
I turned and smiled at him, skirting an ant pile at the edge of the path.
"It's summer, sweetheart. It's a good while yet until the clock chimes midnight and your carriage turns into a pumpkin."
He stopped short, yanking me to a halt.
"What?" I demanded, dropping his hand to face him directly.
"Look," he breathed, extending his arm, indicating something beyond me. "It's like a fairy tale."
I shifted to see what he meant, and felt the sensation from the street sign all over again, this time certain that he felt it, too.
Lightning bugs illuminated the growing gloom surrounding the wooden bridge. The sound of the normally sullen creek chimed through the twilight, swollen by the summer storm. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to surge, the source nearly dripping off the bridge's handrails. On the horizon, a thread of blue lightning seized the ground, the resulting thunderclap swallowed by the distance.
"Yes," I said softly, taking his hand again without moving my gaze from the scene. "It's like a fairy tale."
Wordlessly, we advanced to the bridge, stopping in the center. The shadows from the looming trees danced over us, broken by only the flash of fireflies. The water rushed beneath us, but we stood still, suspended in a summer spell.
He released my hand and plucked up a honeysuckle. He held the pale bell-shaped flower between us.
When he spoke, his eyes reached beyond the bloom to me.
"Sweet and gorgeous."
I blushed, but kept enough of my composure to reply.
"But unable to last beyond the summer."
He shrugged, and dropped the flower off the bridge to get caught up in the current.
"Mayhap."
He stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me, his gaze locking with mine.
It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and I stared up at him, eyes wide with my vulnerability. His hands were flash-points of fire on my back, warmer even than the summer, and far more tangible than the ever-deepening twilight. If only summer really were a fairy tale, drawing to a close with a neat Happily-Ever-After bow, a non-ending end.
One hand rose to cup my neck, his palm soft on my skin. He leaned in.
My eyes fluttered closed.
He kissed me like I had always imagined being kissed, soft, sure, and sweet.
And then there was only summer air brushing against my lips.
It wasn't until he stepped away from me that I could bring myself to open my eyes.
Full night had fallen. The wind had picked up, pushing away the scent of honeysuckle along with the storm. The lightning bugs, too, had disappeared, leaving behind only the burbling rush of water beneath the bridge.
"We should go back," he said, holding out his hand for me.
I took it, interlacing our fingers.
Silently, we proceeded up the path, back onto the street, past the street sign.
His voice broke through the rising symphony of crickets and cicadas, summer sounds.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
We turned the corner as I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
"I'm drawing a blank."
In the growing twilight, the street sign stood out starkly, a 3D figure in an abruptly 2D landscape. A thin ray of sunlight leaked through the storm clouds, making the raindrops over the letter "S" sparkle. The storm was passing, giving way to the summer night.
I don't know if my companion noticed the brief hesitation in my step as the scene, street sign, storm, and summer, arrested me. He may have simply chosen not to comment.
Regardless, I don't think he experienced the same sudden sensation that we were in the midst of a story. The world does not offer up such visuals without some sense of purpose.
He tugged at my hand, our fingers interlaced, and I brought my eyes back to his face.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he offered, his voice as low as the distant purr of thunder.
We turned the corner onto the next street, leaving the sign behind.
"A dollar for your insights," I replied, nearly automatically. A fortune for your desire, I finished silently. I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank.
He rolled his eyes at me and drew me closer, his breath rasping over the shell of my ear even as we continued to walk.
"I can't provide insights into what you won't tell me, dear," he murmured.
I shivered, despite the summer heat.
"I know," I whispered drily, aware that his relative position to me would prevent him from catching the words. "I don't have a dollar on me, either, so it's all for the best."
I watched a lightning bug wink in and out of existence over the marker indicating the path to the neighborhood park.
A transitory bug over a transitory spot, in the midst of a transitory moment.
"Hey," I asked at full volume, stepping away from him slightly. "Do you want to go down to the park?'
He blinked at me. Where summer made me sprightly, it merely made him sleepy.
"Uh... sure," he acquiesced.
I grinned, and now I was the one tugging at his hand, our fingers interlaced.
The lightning bug flashed again as we passed, a vibrant strobe among the steam rising off the asphalt trail.
We were immediately encased in the scent of honeysuckle, warm and sweet, and I slowed again, allowing him to draw even with me. The summer would pass soon enough - I should savor it.
"I thought we weren't going to go this far," he commented, a little nervously, but with a thin thread of cautious delight spun through his tone. "The day will be over soon."
I turned and smiled at him, skirting an ant pile at the edge of the path.
"It's summer, sweetheart. It's a good while yet until the clock chimes midnight and your carriage turns into a pumpkin."
He stopped short, yanking me to a halt.
"What?" I demanded, dropping his hand to face him directly.
"Look," he breathed, extending his arm, indicating something beyond me. "It's like a fairy tale."
I shifted to see what he meant, and felt the sensation from the street sign all over again, this time certain that he felt it, too.
Lightning bugs illuminated the growing gloom surrounding the wooden bridge. The sound of the normally sullen creek chimed through the twilight, swollen by the summer storm. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to surge, the source nearly dripping off the bridge's handrails. On the horizon, a thread of blue lightning seized the ground, the resulting thunderclap swallowed by the distance.
"Yes," I said softly, taking his hand again without moving my gaze from the scene. "It's like a fairy tale."
Wordlessly, we advanced to the bridge, stopping in the center. The shadows from the looming trees danced over us, broken by only the flash of fireflies. The water rushed beneath us, but we stood still, suspended in a summer spell.
He released my hand and plucked up a honeysuckle. He held the pale bell-shaped flower between us.
When he spoke, his eyes reached beyond the bloom to me.
"Sweet and gorgeous."
I blushed, but kept enough of my composure to reply.
"But unable to last beyond the summer."
He shrugged, and dropped the flower off the bridge to get caught up in the current.
"Mayhap."
He stepped closer and his arms wrapped around me, his gaze locking with mine.
It was suddenly difficult to breathe, and I stared up at him, eyes wide with my vulnerability. His hands were flash-points of fire on my back, warmer even than the summer, and far more tangible than the ever-deepening twilight. If only summer really were a fairy tale, drawing to a close with a neat Happily-Ever-After bow, a non-ending end.
One hand rose to cup my neck, his palm soft on my skin. He leaned in.
My eyes fluttered closed.
He kissed me like I had always imagined being kissed, soft, sure, and sweet.
And then there was only summer air brushing against my lips.
It wasn't until he stepped away from me that I could bring myself to open my eyes.
Full night had fallen. The wind had picked up, pushing away the scent of honeysuckle along with the storm. The lightning bugs, too, had disappeared, leaving behind only the burbling rush of water beneath the bridge.
"We should go back," he said, holding out his hand for me.
I took it, interlacing our fingers.
Silently, we proceeded up the path, back onto the street, past the street sign.
His voice broke through the rising symphony of crickets and cicadas, summer sounds.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
We turned the corner as I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.
"I'm drawing a blank."
Guess what...
You probably actually can guess. I won something else.
On June 17, "The Essence of Evanescence" won first place in Steward House's weekly contest. The review was highly complimentary, recognizing the poetry in the story. I was actually rather shocked with the placement, considering that I'd literally wrote the piece not two hours before I entered it. I guess I don't always have to edit the ever-loving stuffing out of everything I write.
The story itself will be posted here... eventually. I'm sure.
While you're there, you should also check out Keayva Mitchell's piece, "Ari and Lina's Spectacular Summer of Fun." I swear, I'm beginning to fall in love with that girl's writing, and I sincerely hope that I can tempt you, my lovely readers, into doing the same.
On June 17, "The Essence of Evanescence" won first place in Steward House's weekly contest. The review was highly complimentary, recognizing the poetry in the story. I was actually rather shocked with the placement, considering that I'd literally wrote the piece not two hours before I entered it. I guess I don't always have to edit the ever-loving stuffing out of everything I write.
The story itself will be posted here... eventually. I'm sure.
While you're there, you should also check out Keayva Mitchell's piece, "Ari and Lina's Spectacular Summer of Fun." I swear, I'm beginning to fall in love with that girl's writing, and I sincerely hope that I can tempt you, my lovely readers, into doing the same.
6/24/11
Surf
Sometimes, you have to live on anger, let it roll through you like a wave and push you forward into the world. Sometimes, anger is the only thing keeping you from crumpling in place, head bowed under the weight of what you face, immobile. Anger can spark movement, and movement is almost always a good.
I choose to be furious; I choose to move.
Take your stupid silence and your quiet acceptance and keep them to yourself. Don't bind me up in the immobility of the blind. I rage, I crash, I crackle, I dance, I create, I destroy - I cannot be tamed with simple three-word phrases and complacency. Get off your ass and move with me!
I am as fickle as the tide of anger that currently sustains me. I am arbitrary, and I can't decide if it bothers me more that you do not acknowledge that or that you do not notice it. Perhaps it even pleases me.
Aaaargh! My pen strokes are sharp with my temper, jagged like the teeth of my psyche. Let me bite into life, with all its zillion flavors.
(Behind my fervor is a well-spring of tears that would merrily drown me if only I were to stop moving.)
I choose to be furious; I choose to move.
Take your stupid silence and your quiet acceptance and keep them to yourself. Don't bind me up in the immobility of the blind. I rage, I crash, I crackle, I dance, I create, I destroy - I cannot be tamed with simple three-word phrases and complacency. Get off your ass and move with me!
I am as fickle as the tide of anger that currently sustains me. I am arbitrary, and I can't decide if it bothers me more that you do not acknowledge that or that you do not notice it. Perhaps it even pleases me.
Aaaargh! My pen strokes are sharp with my temper, jagged like the teeth of my psyche. Let me bite into life, with all its zillion flavors.
(Behind my fervor is a well-spring of tears that would merrily drown me if only I were to stop moving.)
6/23/11
Breathing for Bleeding
Leave me breathing because I forgot how to bleed. You are nowhere and everywhere to me, but I suppose both are somewhere. I just don't know how to find you.
I suppose that the distance is a good thing, just a shadow of situations to come. I breathe in the space, feeling my pulse stutter and simmer, stroking the inside of my skin in the hopes of escape.
Without you, everything seems quiet.
But then, I suppose that the aftermath of an explosion is always quiet in comparison.
So I breathe, the desperate sound like silk on satin, the murmur of blood passing through capillaries like the whisper of a creek. I wanted to bleed last night; the explosion scraped me raw. But at some point since meeting you, I forgot how to shed so much as a single ruby seed.
I suppose that the distance is a good thing, just a shadow of situations to come. I breathe in the space, feeling my pulse stutter and simmer, stroking the inside of my skin in the hopes of escape.
Without you, everything seems quiet.
But then, I suppose that the aftermath of an explosion is always quiet in comparison.
So I breathe, the desperate sound like silk on satin, the murmur of blood passing through capillaries like the whisper of a creek. I wanted to bleed last night; the explosion scraped me raw. But at some point since meeting you, I forgot how to shed so much as a single ruby seed.
6/18/11
To Those Who Leave Me Comments -
Although I will not address individual comments directly, I do receive your comments, I do read your comments, and I do appreciate your comments. Be not disheartened by my silence.
Thank you to all my readers for finding my ineloquent insanity interesting.
I love you all. :)
- SD
Thank you to all my readers for finding my ineloquent insanity interesting.
I love you all. :)
- SD
MORE Contest Winnings!
Somehow, typing that fails to get old. XD
On May 27, 2011, "The End" won second place. Steward House says the poem "has some of the best line endings, alliteration, and assonance we've seen in a poem yet." Nice, huh? And they didn't attempt to summarize it, either. I'm verra content. :) (In case all the emoticons didn't give that away.)
As always, you can continue to find more of my poetry, good, bad, and downright awful, at my All Poetry page.
On May 27, 2011, "The End" won second place. Steward House says the poem "has some of the best line endings, alliteration, and assonance we've seen in a poem yet." Nice, huh? And they didn't attempt to summarize it, either. I'm verra content. :) (In case all the emoticons didn't give that away.)
As always, you can continue to find more of my poetry, good, bad, and downright awful, at my All Poetry page.
6/11/11
A Drum Set and a Cymbal
You don't know what you do to me.
Sure, you touch me and send sensations shivering across my skin, soft and sensual, startling me to the precipice of sanity. You know that you do that to me.
But you sit there, shirt inconsequential if not outright abandoned, your skin gleaming in the light, your eyes darkened, and you do so much more than the merely sensual. There's something about that sight, of you half in darkness, half in light, that reaches deep into me, grabs ahold, and twists. It's powerful at a visceral level.
And then we kiss. I swear that even if you aren't really a proper substitute for breathing, that I'd give it up to just keep tasting you. Your kiss feels like there are bubbles in my throat, little gossamer spots of glitter just begging to be released into the world. Your kiss on my lips does something to the universe, not just to me.
And as you trace your fingers down my neck, you have no idea. You are an innocent; you have no way of knowing it, no way of controlling it. I close my eyes to block out the dark and light reality that this is far more than you bargained for. You know you have startled me to the precipice of sanity, but you don't know that you are going to make me fall.
Or that you're going to fall with me.
I close my eyes and kiss your neck; I stop breathing.
You really have no idea what you do to me.
Sure, you touch me and send sensations shivering across my skin, soft and sensual, startling me to the precipice of sanity. You know that you do that to me.
But you sit there, shirt inconsequential if not outright abandoned, your skin gleaming in the light, your eyes darkened, and you do so much more than the merely sensual. There's something about that sight, of you half in darkness, half in light, that reaches deep into me, grabs ahold, and twists. It's powerful at a visceral level.
And then we kiss. I swear that even if you aren't really a proper substitute for breathing, that I'd give it up to just keep tasting you. Your kiss feels like there are bubbles in my throat, little gossamer spots of glitter just begging to be released into the world. Your kiss on my lips does something to the universe, not just to me.
And as you trace your fingers down my neck, you have no idea. You are an innocent; you have no way of knowing it, no way of controlling it. I close my eyes to block out the dark and light reality that this is far more than you bargained for. You know you have startled me to the precipice of sanity, but you don't know that you are going to make me fall.
Or that you're going to fall with me.
I close my eyes and kiss your neck; I stop breathing.
You really have no idea what you do to me.
An Insignificant Moment
Chills rush down my legs, but I welcome them the way I won't welcome tears. Usually, I know from the start how things will turn out, and just don't want to believe it.
What do I say now?
A country song unspools in my head, talking of taking memories. My current playlist is titled "(Substitute) Street Signs & Cell Signal" because I miss civilization. I miss you. (And girls like me don't miss.) The three together should be freaking me out.
I have a long list of "should"s where you're concerned.
And I don't want to pay attention to a single one of them.
I wanted this piece to be beautiful, you know. I wanted it to drip imagery and burst with all the emotions that are whirling through my head like the precursor to a tornado.
But it's just another disjointed, melodramatic blog post, capturing nothing but a moment, and an insignificant one at that.
What do I say now?
A country song unspools in my head, talking of taking memories. My current playlist is titled "(Substitute) Street Signs & Cell Signal" because I miss civilization. I miss you. (And girls like me don't miss.) The three together should be freaking me out.
I have a long list of "should"s where you're concerned.
And I don't want to pay attention to a single one of them.
I wanted this piece to be beautiful, you know. I wanted it to drip imagery and burst with all the emotions that are whirling through my head like the precursor to a tornado.
But it's just another disjointed, melodramatic blog post, capturing nothing but a moment, and an insignificant one at that.
6/5/11
On Fairy Tales
I never quite believed in fairy tales; not the Disney-fied versions that we're familiar with, anyways. I was never that fond of princes, even when I fancied myself a princess, and kisses don't signify a "Happily Ever After."
Yet, the language of fairy tales saturates my writing. I am fascinated by them - by their fallacies. After all, frogs are only ever frogs, and princes tend to be rarefied. Knights (apart from not officially existing in America) don't ride horses, and if they wear armor, it isn't shiny, but made of Kevlar. While some women may be trapped in figurative ivory towers, they usually want to stay there, and aren't worth the rescue at any rate.
But fairy tales have endured. There's a reason that we (and I) continue to use them and allude to them.
We want to believe in their intrinsic truths.
Fairy tales teach that love can transform people, that being kind to down-on-their-luck strangers pays off, that there is something good in everyone, that true love lasts, that the underdog can prevail, that there is always a way out of any bad situation, and (most importantly) that love stories can have happy endings, not ending at all.
Maybe I do believe in fairy tales.
Yet, the language of fairy tales saturates my writing. I am fascinated by them - by their fallacies. After all, frogs are only ever frogs, and princes tend to be rarefied. Knights (apart from not officially existing in America) don't ride horses, and if they wear armor, it isn't shiny, but made of Kevlar. While some women may be trapped in figurative ivory towers, they usually want to stay there, and aren't worth the rescue at any rate.
But fairy tales have endured. There's a reason that we (and I) continue to use them and allude to them.
We want to believe in their intrinsic truths.
Fairy tales teach that love can transform people, that being kind to down-on-their-luck strangers pays off, that there is something good in everyone, that true love lasts, that the underdog can prevail, that there is always a way out of any bad situation, and (most importantly) that love stories can have happy endings, not ending at all.
Maybe I do believe in fairy tales.
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