My palms itch with the desire to move, to manipulate, to create. What doesn't make sense is beautiful, awkward - intriguing.
Tell me stories about all the lies you constantly tell; expect me to believe every last syllable. (But then I suppose that my belief is the best part of the whole situation, due to the delightful irony that it's what I desperately want.)
More than anything, I miss being touched. (Mind out of gutter, now.) So much as the casual brush of fingertips when passing over a pencil or a cup of tea can be enough to reassure a person that one is liked. (No one wants to be in that lowest of low castes.) Will you remind me of everything that I know myself to be?
It's beautiful in its awkwardness, so I let my palms itch with desire and I observe. I can gather information until the outcome is obvious, and in the meantime, remind myself that if I believe your lies, my conclusions will be skewed. (Never mind what I want to be true.)
8/31/11
Daily Grind
There are days when I wish I could see the grand scheme of the world, even though the doing-so would probably make me insane.
On those days, I try a little harder to know things.
Today was not such a day, though I wanted it to be.
I want to know what all this back and forth, in and out, daily grind means.
On those days, I try a little harder to know things.
Today was not such a day, though I wanted it to be.
I want to know what all this back and forth, in and out, daily grind means.
8/29/11
Reparamus
He gave her a bracelet with a heart-shaped box, and filled it with a promise she knew wouldn't be kept. But she smiled, and wore it on her sleeve, just because hope is a beautiful thing.
Before too long, the heart had a broken clasp, and the box swung open, spilling his un-retainable promise on a random spit of unidentifiable ground. Her empty, broken heart dangled for all to see.
But still she wore it, day and night, treasuring it with the naivete that dictates that mourning can sometimes fix things. She got to the point where she no longer noticed it, and behaved as though it were perfectly normal to have a broken heart, hollow and gaping like a wound, showing just beyond her sleeve.
However, there were times she'd catch sight of it, and remember him and his long-gone promise that neither he nor she could keep. She would stop, and stare, eyes glazing over as they bored holes into the not-so-distant past.
One day, she found there were more holes than memories, and she snapped.
She plucked her broken heart from her sleeve, crumpling the empty box into the bracelet, stuffing all the holes in the past with his missing promise, and threw it all against the wall. She swallowed back tears, and she let the damnable mess lay, all tangled up in complications, where it had fallen.
It was not she who picked up the pieces, but a boy.
He knelt on the floor, and extricated the broken heart from all that threatened to choke it, consume it, drown it, make it as un-retainable as the promise that once filled it. He took it to his workbench, and with a small smile and a pair of pliers, fixed the clasp.
Then, face serious, he offered her back her heart, no longer whole, but now unbroken.
With a look of wonder and a whispered expression of gratitude, she accepted the bracelet.
She wears her empty heart on her sleeve.
(The next promise she receives, she'll keep.)
Before too long, the heart had a broken clasp, and the box swung open, spilling his un-retainable promise on a random spit of unidentifiable ground. Her empty, broken heart dangled for all to see.
But still she wore it, day and night, treasuring it with the naivete that dictates that mourning can sometimes fix things. She got to the point where she no longer noticed it, and behaved as though it were perfectly normal to have a broken heart, hollow and gaping like a wound, showing just beyond her sleeve.
However, there were times she'd catch sight of it, and remember him and his long-gone promise that neither he nor she could keep. She would stop, and stare, eyes glazing over as they bored holes into the not-so-distant past.
One day, she found there were more holes than memories, and she snapped.
She plucked her broken heart from her sleeve, crumpling the empty box into the bracelet, stuffing all the holes in the past with his missing promise, and threw it all against the wall. She swallowed back tears, and she let the damnable mess lay, all tangled up in complications, where it had fallen.
It was not she who picked up the pieces, but a boy.
He knelt on the floor, and extricated the broken heart from all that threatened to choke it, consume it, drown it, make it as un-retainable as the promise that once filled it. He took it to his workbench, and with a small smile and a pair of pliers, fixed the clasp.
Then, face serious, he offered her back her heart, no longer whole, but now unbroken.
With a look of wonder and a whispered expression of gratitude, she accepted the bracelet.
She wears her empty heart on her sleeve.
(The next promise she receives, she'll keep.)
8/8/11
Hey, Lover -
Hush. Just listen.
You make me wish I wrote love songs, and remind me that my iPod is inadequate, because there's not a single song on there that fits us just right.
You steal my breath with the softest of kisses, and leave me staring after you, smoky-eyed with wonder, a tiny ember of pure happiness warming me from my stomach. You draw up champagne from a well of acid, distilling it to something enviable with the slow slide of your tongue along my lower lip.
You sound like Pachelbel's Canon, ska-style.
Burning cotton candy sunsets remind me of the two of us together: crazy, gorgeous, passionate, and sweet to the point of being cannibalistic-carnival scary. Every time the sky bursts into flame, I move to be closer to you, because that's how we are and how we're meant to be.
You hold me like I'm so special that you might break if I were to slide out of your arms. It makes me want to cling to you and promise that you'll never be broken again, but I don't say the words because I can't stay in your arms for too much longer, regardless of how much I want to. All I can promise is that, even broken, you'll always be beautiful, the imperfect repairs showing off your strength.
You don't hear me say "I love you" often, because those three words never seem to cover it. This is more intricate than a simple three-word phrase, more heart-achingly universal and cosmic than the pedestrian expression. I think we know that, but we don't have the time to describe forever to each other, so "I love you," inadequate as it is, will have to do.
Hey, Lover -
I love you.
You make me wish I wrote love songs, and remind me that my iPod is inadequate, because there's not a single song on there that fits us just right.
You steal my breath with the softest of kisses, and leave me staring after you, smoky-eyed with wonder, a tiny ember of pure happiness warming me from my stomach. You draw up champagne from a well of acid, distilling it to something enviable with the slow slide of your tongue along my lower lip.
You sound like Pachelbel's Canon, ska-style.
Burning cotton candy sunsets remind me of the two of us together: crazy, gorgeous, passionate, and sweet to the point of being cannibalistic-carnival scary. Every time the sky bursts into flame, I move to be closer to you, because that's how we are and how we're meant to be.
You hold me like I'm so special that you might break if I were to slide out of your arms. It makes me want to cling to you and promise that you'll never be broken again, but I don't say the words because I can't stay in your arms for too much longer, regardless of how much I want to. All I can promise is that, even broken, you'll always be beautiful, the imperfect repairs showing off your strength.
You don't hear me say "I love you" often, because those three words never seem to cover it. This is more intricate than a simple three-word phrase, more heart-achingly universal and cosmic than the pedestrian expression. I think we know that, but we don't have the time to describe forever to each other, so "I love you," inadequate as it is, will have to do.
Hey, Lover -
I love you.
8/2/11
The Pretty Lies
These days, I imagine sleeping next to him, because I know that being held by you is an exercise in being so close and yet so far away.
I wonder if that's what holding me is for him.
Either way, is it worth it?
We all want to believe the pretty lies, that this is less or more than it really is. But we don't. We almost have ourselves convinced by them, and can even spend days confident that those pretty lies are the truth.
Then we have those moments of awful clarity when the lies shine transparently in the dark. We know, for moments at a time, that this is neither more nor less.
The moments pass, and we can go back to almost convincing ourselves, because things can change at any time. But we remember seeing through the pretty lies, and fear that they'll become transparent again, shining in the dark like the falsehoods they really are.
So that's all the pretty lies ever can be.
It doesn't matter whom I imagine sleeping next to me from night to night. One is more and the other less, but all either one ever really is is a pretty lie.
I wonder if that's what holding me is for him.
Either way, is it worth it?
We all want to believe the pretty lies, that this is less or more than it really is. But we don't. We almost have ourselves convinced by them, and can even spend days confident that those pretty lies are the truth.
Then we have those moments of awful clarity when the lies shine transparently in the dark. We know, for moments at a time, that this is neither more nor less.
The moments pass, and we can go back to almost convincing ourselves, because things can change at any time. But we remember seeing through the pretty lies, and fear that they'll become transparent again, shining in the dark like the falsehoods they really are.
So that's all the pretty lies ever can be.
It doesn't matter whom I imagine sleeping next to me from night to night. One is more and the other less, but all either one ever really is is a pretty lie.
An Accident of Wyrd Returns
... with a winning contest placement.
I've been working off and on with "An Accident of Wyrd" for almost three years. A couple weeks back, I finally decided that it was something and submitted the final version of the piece.
Apparently I'm not the only one who likes it.
I hope it's becoming second nature to you to check out the other winning pieces when you go to read mine, because Keayva Mitchell's "To the One that Fell Away" is also amazing. It's kind of reminiscent of "A Drum Set and a Cymbal," if on the opposite side of the equation.
I'm thinking Keayva Mitchell needs her own little tag for this blog.
I've been working off and on with "An Accident of Wyrd" for almost three years. A couple weeks back, I finally decided that it was something and submitted the final version of the piece.
Apparently I'm not the only one who likes it.
I hope it's becoming second nature to you to check out the other winning pieces when you go to read mine, because Keayva Mitchell's "To the One that Fell Away" is also amazing. It's kind of reminiscent of "A Drum Set and a Cymbal," if on the opposite side of the equation.
I'm thinking Keayva Mitchell needs her own little tag for this blog.
8/1/11
A Bird
I check my phone for the text I know you haven't sent, finding his instead.
"Thinking of you. ;)"
I lie to myself, and force a smile. A bird in hand and all that.
"You too, babe."
If my reply is lacking, he's polite enough not to say. He will not ask questions to which he does not desire an answer.
You were great about asking questions; you just never wanted answers at all.
My phone buzzes again, and I automatically look for it to display your name.
But it never does.
It's always his.
"Thinking of you. ;)"
I lie to myself, and force a smile. A bird in hand and all that.
"You too, babe."
If my reply is lacking, he's polite enough not to say. He will not ask questions to which he does not desire an answer.
You were great about asking questions; you just never wanted answers at all.
My phone buzzes again, and I automatically look for it to display your name.
But it never does.
It's always his.
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