Posts (page 2)

i'm over it

one million shattered sounds
tile a mosaic
on my neck.
while whispered memories
travail a thin, androgenous death.
one million interpretations,
ways to read your lips
Cheshire, Judas,
Mary Magdalene.
one million scars i carry
beneath this floral dress
one million burns and stitches
my Love,
one million men.

Dear Girl, you fall in Love too quickly. Fuck. You're always breaking. And yet, you never seem to be searching. You just stumble on their Converse toes, spill lager on their vintage band tee, and start laughing. Dancing.  They fall in love with you, immediately.  But you don't give your heart away. No. First, you daydream.  The worse death for your dieing breed.  Imagine sentimental scenes.  See future romance in smoky bars.  Crawling into back seats and kissing, groping, touching. Bodies wet from thunderstorms of excitement.  After weeks of casual flirtations, Love slips into your veins.  You wish those dreams turn reality. 
That's when they pull away.
Exit stage left.
And leave you standing, naked and bruised, before a captivated audience.
In front of the velvet curtain.
All alone,
again.

The madness that you feel will soon subside
So in a word don't shed a tear
I'll be here when it all gets weird
If I ever leave this world alive

to the first man i met in this world,

in this month of fathers, i miss you.  i have so many questions i need you to answer.  i have so much doubt on men and love and life. relationships.  i needed you here when my heart was bleeding.  i needed you to quietly hold my hand.  i needed you to see my eyes drip and my chest shake. trembles and heartache.  i needed a man, but you've abandoned me like the worse of them.  and when i walked across that stage, i thought i found your face. in the back of the theater, in the dark corners of the crowd.  but you weren't there. you didn't even know i was.  sean has been sober for six months now.  i know you felt his addiction the most.  i know it scared you, how he was making your mistakes.  the same ones that took you years to correct.  he could have used his father then. we're loosing the house.  the one you built with sweat and marriage.  the one you left with an empty family.  mom sold the wedding rings on wednesday.  hawked them to make May's mortgage.  she cried.  i cried. and we needed you.  to remind us that there are more memories to be made.  that life keeps spinning, even if it's spinning away.  i can't hear the pogues without shaking.  and i can't stop listening, love you till the end.  i know you sing me morphine.  i know you dedicate the song to me. i can hear it, in my head:

Last night I told a stranger all about you
They smiled patiently with disbelief
I always knew you would succeed no matter what you tried
And I know you did it all in spite of me
Still I'm proud to have know you for the short time that I did
Glad to have been a step up on your way
Proud to be part of your illustrious career
And I know you did it all in spite of me....

and you know i did it all, in spite of you.

The tears are being kept within reach.  Behind the white walls of these gray eyes.  It's okay.  I like them there.  Safe keeping.

I see us.  Dancing. Slowly. My head nestled in the dent between your collarbone and chest.  Inhaling the scents of a man.  Your palm rests on the small of my back.  Between the lip of my shirt and the belt of my pants.  There is some skin to skin contact. Some. 

It's crowded in this smoky bar where the band covers Irish punk rock, but I hear Ella Fitzgerald.  With her crisp, blue femininity.  And you hum soft romance to my cheeks.  Hush reassurance and tranquility, as I reach for some truth or explanation of life, in the accented lyrics of far off dreams.

In the center of this dirty sea, I'm ready to fall in love again.

i didn't mean to be mean
why does it always seem
like i've never won
keep it clean and no ones ever won

the empty promise will make you sick, here it comes
make a point to make no sense, well, here it comes
speak about the future in the past tense, here it comes...

(awesome video)

He is gentle with the door.  So cautious, in fact, that I barely hear his entrance.  He slips his sneakers off, laces still loosely knotted in a shredded nest, and initiates the quiet morning appearance.  He peals the maroon cap from his matted, chocolate mess, hangs it on the back of the warm door knob, and squeezes a plastic grocery bag between last night's poker game, crowded ash trays, and empty bottles of dry red.
I pause, momentarily, from my book.  Lift my chin from my knees, my eyes from Nabokov, and shoot that silent question through closed lips. 
Where did you go when you left my bed? Where have you been?
He turns his back to me, bends over the bar, and fumbles with the contents on the counter.  The white rag of a tee-shirt pulled against his back.  I love his back.  The broadness of his shoulders from years spent fighting with waves in rough waters.  The lines of his lats, narrowing into a V above his hips.  I could spend years touching him.  Holding on to his ribs and pressing my thumbs in the soft flesh below his shoulder blades.  Picking each bead of his spine from nape to tailbone.  Kneading and pushing with the heel of my palm.  Tugging the roots of his hair, violating his scalp.  Pressing my breasts against his trapezius, wrapping my arms through his, pulling back and opening his chest.
He swings back in an excited burst of accomplishment.  His eyes start giggling, sparkles and warmth and innocence.  He raises his trophies over his head like he just placed in the Tour de France.
In the left, half and half.
In the right, the Sunday paper.
I finally exhale. And laugh.
Open my fleece cover and welcome him back.

and maybe you're right...

(this song has played repeat, in my head, through my lips, for days now)