| There's a Time Bomb Ticking |
[Nov. 16th, 2009|04:48 am] |
In the hours before the sun breaks over the skyline—the horizon, rather, because nothing is here but the stretch of dying grasses—she wonders how she can bear to take her next breath.
It is not that she wants to die; rather, it is she is afraid to live. Her mind is a soothing retreat for the monotony and blasé turn the year has become. She imagines herself far away, independent but not alone. She imagines that she has been born anew, the previous incarnate shucked away like a husk.
"How's your daughter?" she will ask the old woman who she meets for tea every Thursday.
"Pick a recipe!" she will tell the young boy who visits her when he wants cakes.
"Oh, would you shut up?" she will scold her large dogs fondly as they beg for table scraps.
"I am free," she will tell her reflection.
One day, the sun will break. One day. |
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| What's Right and What's Real |
[Jul. 25th, 2009|05:12 am] |
I want to scream. I want to beat my chest and roar. I want to howl. I want to rage and break and destroy. I want to bite and scratch and tear and just fucking lay waste to Tokyo like motherfucking Godzilla on narcotics.
In case of the improbable happening, tuck your head between your knees and do what you think is appropriate. ♥ |
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| You Can't Feel Anymore |
[Jun. 24th, 2009|03:46 pm] |
Boy #01's Facebook status reads "In a Relationship With The Other Other Girl" and I try not to grit my teeth. I knew that this would roll around eventually, but somehow it still hollows out the bottom of my guts and leaves behind a sick, empty roil of jealousy that I should not be feeling.
We really messed up. There's little we didn't do to one another that everyone else frowns upon and considers destructive. By the laws of sanity we should hate each other and be unable to bear the thought of the other, but somehow it's quite the opposite.
Which leads me to my current problem: how I'm going to confront the Other Other Girl, three years my junior and baby-faced, the horrible female that brags about cheating on her boyfriends. I imagine cornering her and getting so close to her face that she's so uncomfortable she squirms and tries to push me away; I grab her face with one hand and my fingers dig into her skin. I tell her that if she even dares to even touch another male while with Boy #01 I will break her fingers. I tell her that if she breaks his heart because she refuses to have one I will come down on her like fire and brimstone came down on Sodom and Gomorrah, and ruin her for the next year she has to stay in our fishbowl town. I'm terrifying. If she's never been threatened before, this will push adrenaline through her veins and she will know that I'm not fucking around.
I probably won't. I'll just have my traditional coffee with Boy #01, where we talk about everything except Boy #02, the Other Girl, and now, the Other Other Girl. Sometimes, I wish things were less complicated. |
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| What You Make So Obvious |
[Jun. 2nd, 2009|07:53 pm] |
Boy #01 and I are at The Park again. I'm constantly making sure that there's enough distance between us; I don't allow our hands to brush or my hip to bump his. The only contact we have is when his warm, callused fingers brush some hair away from my mouth.
I want to kiss him and I don't want to kiss him. I want to hold him and I don't want to hold him. I keep thinking of Boy #02 and how he's sitting back at The House, trying to distract himself from his vivid imagination; I think of Boy #03, and how he half-embraces me, our foreheads touching, the elbows of his long arms resting on my shoulders; I think of BFFL clicking her tongue when I tell her that I've gone and done it once more.
So I do nothing. I say nothing more than friends would say, even though I know he wants me to tell him that I love him (I do) and that I'm here for him (I try so hard to be) and that, some day, it will work out (I know it won't be in the way he hopes it will). It's hard, but I can do it.
Now the big question is, how long can I? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 19th, 2009|05:41 pm] |
My best friend for life is losing one of her Core Four. (The Core Four would be me, Ms. Bitch, The Hippie, and Straight Laces.) BBFL is all I have from high school; I lost my seven year friendship with Ms. Bitch and Straight Laces when I made it very clear that Boy #01 was—and would always be—"The One". I've gone through this already, but it's hard to watch BFFL go through that as well, and I don't know what to say other than, "It happens." and slap Straight Laces until she comes undone.
Sandwiched between that, my out-of-pocket incremental college payments ($800 a month with no job, no parental sympathy, and only blood plasma to sacrifice), an 18 credit workload, and a fifteen week schedule hacked down to twelve because of snow and flood, the only things I'm thankful for are the $1.29 plus tax 24 oz. English Toffee Cappuccino from the sketchy gas station just off campus and Boy #02's hands on my shoulders. How I'm going to survive these next 26 days is beyond my mental capabilities.
Also, Boy #01 is suicidal. Again. I really don't need or know how to deal with this shit. Again. |
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| Fade Out Again |
[Apr. 5th, 2009|09:55 pm] |
Boy #03 twists his face into a grimace as he pulls away from the camera. "I told you that wasn't my good side!" he jokes, grabbing his camera away from my hands. "Only the good side, girl, only the good side!"
I laugh as he poses. "All sides are good to me," I say, half mocking, half serious. He raises an eyebrow and relaxes his supposed model pose; I feel my cheeks burn with a blush. "You're very attractive, you know."
We've talked about this before. I'm dating Boy #02. Boy #01 is exactly that--the first for everything and probably the last for anything. Boy #03 hangs like the particles in a colloid, there but just another part of the mixture. He's older and handsome in a quirky, spastic way. We've known about each other for years, but it's only been two months since we got over the awkward mandate of a first conversation. Then we kissed and now we can't stop talking and flirting and lingering in that empty between stage.
"Hey," he says. He rests his hand on my knee; he knows everything because I've told him. I like him, like the itch of an obsessive crush, but Boy #01 is so, so important and I need Boy #02 for my stability and sanity. For him, Boy #03, I need the insecurity and the knowledge that someone only wants me instead of needing me. It's refreshing and, Jesus, I just wish it were uncomplicated so it could be more. "Your sides are pretty good too. I like them a lot."
We smile easily, and he nudges his nose against the swell of my cheek, then he kisses the corner of my mouth. "I work hard on them," I joke again, because with him, it's easy to think that it really is uncomplicated.
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| The Gentlest Fear |
[Apr. 5th, 2009|05:11 pm] |
Boy #02 uses it as an excuse. "My dad left me," he tries to convey. "I have trust issues." (His dad left when he was 10.)
Boy #01 has it ingrained into his psyche. "I'm not going to be my dad," he swears. "I had to try." (His dad left when he was 4.)
Boy #03 procrastinates. "I still haven't done my taxes," he sighs. "Sometimes I regret the sound business." (His dad is still there.)
I feel like their mothers. |
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| The Sun Will Rise Like Yesterday |
[Mar. 25th, 2009|05:14 pm] |
I sleep past noon most days. My roommate snarls, "Are you doing anything productive, or are you just going to lay there?" as though she needs to be my mother. (I want to snap back, "There's a reason I don't go home.") I avoid my dorm--our dorm--like it has been quarantined, waiting until she's REM cycling so I won't have to deal with her neuroticism; I've already asked her, "What have I done?" to which she replies sarcastically, "Oh, I don't know!"
She told me once that she envied me. I'm skinnier, taller, with Boy #01 and Boy #02 bent around my fingers. Boy #03 has a grin that lights up his too blue eyes when he tells me that he been thinking about me too much. I don't have to try as hard as she does to get A's and B's in my classes. I eat whatever I want and don't gain a pound. I write and draw and have the patience for origami and silence; I do what I want because I hate regrets.
"You're perfect," Boy #02 whispers reverently. "I don't get why she lashes out so much."
Unfortunately, I know exactly why she does it. |
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| Don't Feel Bitter When I'm Fucking Around |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|10:06 pm] |
Misery piles up like the sandbags the volunteers put down to stop the rising river; in two days time it’ll crest at exactly 41.5 feet, the highest it’s been since the 1950’s. The newspapers and the radio stations call for more hands and more effort and the girl who lives in the dorm next to me jokingly writes “Hurry! We need 2 of every animal!” on the pink whiteboard hanging from her door. My roommate has been off every day since our return from spring break to fill the plastic bags and pile them high while all I do is sit here and listen to everyone chat about the houses they’ve surrounded or the bridges they’ve built up. I feel detached from the flurry of rain boots, wet jeans, and crusted fingernails, and even further from the rising water and continuous rain.
Still, Boy #03 says 'GO SANDBAG' in all capital letters. I picture him in dark boots and the cliche red flannel shirt, a serious look in his blue eyes as he fills and carries bag after bag to the steady growing, seasonal wall. He's so concerned and selfless in my imaginings that I want to choke him until I think of his short, wiry hair underneath my fingertips; my skin itches with the remembrance of that sensation. A bit of what remains of my conscience sputters indignantly at this silly crush and prompts the image of Boy #01 with his red-rimmed eyes and the smile of Boy #02 as he pulls away from a kiss, yet Boy #03 pulls me up with one hand and puts his mouth over mine, sucking the resistance I never had from me.
I should feel like shit. I don't. I want this.
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