What are you doing here, you sadist?
What's wrong with you?
Get back to your donut hole goddess and stop checking in for any hint of you in my thoughts.
Get back to your any-soft-body-will-do redemption,
get back to your pathological lies,
get back to telling yourself that you're shy and introverted,
get back to never ever shutting the fuck up,
get back to never being able to be alone,
get back to shameless flirting with a sex you're not interested in,
get back to art for the sake of getting unsuspecting girls naked,
get back to the pornography that you try to pass off as poetic,
get back to transparent attempts to get girls' attention,
get back to objectifying and degrading attractive women,
get back to pretending to have read or watched or played or heard anything that you think will make you in some way desirable,
get back to your pseudo-intellectualism,
get back to trying to impress her with your borrowed opinions,
get back to revising your personality according to your new love interests' preferences,
get back to custom-tailoring your likes and dislikes to what you think she wants in a soul mate,
get back to passing off old songs and drawings as special,
get back to telling her she's the only one and she's amazing,
get back to your lazy, fragile devotion,
get back to forgetting who your friends were,
get back to guilting your roommate into buying you food,
get back to spending all your money on shoes,
get back to tricking old lovers into doing your laundry,
get back to relying on your parents and telling yourself you're grown up,
get back to your hypocrisy,
get back to self-consciousness about your homemade scars,
get back to blaming them on anything that sounds plausible yet pitiable,
get back to threatening to kill yourself when things don't work out the way you planned,
get back to thinking you're justified in all of your actions,
get back to selfish obsession,
get back to slandering old flames because they've realized that you're psychotic,
get back to pretending to be drunk so that you can have an excuse to act like a psychopath,
get back to pretending like you'd thought of proposing to me,
get back to pretending like you had a ring for me,
get back to trying to make our story all the more pathetic,
get back to telling yourself that I'm awful because I couldn't love you the way you wanted,
get back to villainizing me because I will smash any pedestal I'm placed on,
get back to pretending to be happy for me,
get out, get out, get out.
21 November 2011
the ring that went missing from your finger
every time I make an effort and you sigh at it,
every time I lean in and you don't look up,
every time you leave without saying a word,
I lay in your bed, trying to think of something
that might sting you as you so effortlessly sting me,
but I can never manage to think of anything close
to the same calibre of cruelty as your thoughtlessness
every time I lean in and you don't look up,
every time you leave without saying a word,
I lay in your bed, trying to think of something
that might sting you as you so effortlessly sting me,
but I can never manage to think of anything close
to the same calibre of cruelty as your thoughtlessness
Ace of hearts,
Ace of hearts, you used to be the suicide king, you used to be such a fool for love.
You were of the same suit, but you had a sword through your head and a crown on top of it.
You were part of a full house but moved out upon realizing that the deck was fixed and not in your favor. I think I told you that I didn't want to play anymore, either.
Ace of hearts, tell me, is it good not to be king? A king means little without some sort of pair, but aces must get lonely, too.
Life as an ace is unpredictable. In some games you're most valuable, a hot commodity, everybody's after you. But in others you're next to meaningless.
In any case, this is to say that I like having you in my hand.
You were of the same suit, but you had a sword through your head and a crown on top of it.
You were part of a full house but moved out upon realizing that the deck was fixed and not in your favor. I think I told you that I didn't want to play anymore, either.
Ace of hearts, tell me, is it good not to be king? A king means little without some sort of pair, but aces must get lonely, too.
Life as an ace is unpredictable. In some games you're most valuable, a hot commodity, everybody's after you. But in others you're next to meaningless.
In any case, this is to say that I like having you in my hand.
The kind that consumes,
He was at least seven different
people at once. Most of them did
not like me, but one loved me so
much that he set fire to my mattress
and made sure that I suffocated in
the smoke. I loved at least one of
him back, though I had reason to
believe that the other six plotted
against me quite regularly.
people at once. Most of them did
not like me, but one loved me so
much that he set fire to my mattress
and made sure that I suffocated in
the smoke. I loved at least one of
him back, though I had reason to
believe that the other six plotted
against me quite regularly.
Dear Anyone Listening,
I never want children.
I could never tuck my babies in at night, knowing that someday they would have to grow up and stop being afraid of the monsters under their beds, and that, of course, someday they would begin inviting the monsters into their beds.
I could never tuck my babies in at night, knowing that someday they would have to grow up and stop being afraid of the monsters under their beds, and that, of course, someday they would begin inviting the monsters into their beds.
15 November 2011
12 Steps for Fitting Your Lover Into a Shoebox
1. Find a shoebox.
2. Decapitate, dismember, and disembowel stuffed animals. When the stuffing blows away in the wind, pretend it's dandylion fluff, and you just made a wish on a rather large dandylion. Wish to show no mercy. It'll come true.
3. Shred all love letters with your teeth. Bitterly spit on each scrap until all paper is sufficiently damp. Mold scraps into a papier-mâché bust of your lover's head. Let dry over night. Set on fire in the morning.
4. Drag mixed CDs against concrete until the pavement plays your song. Crack CDs in crescent moon halves. Stomp on them until the sidewalk sparkles with shards of love songs.
5. Take scissors to all clothing items. Cut into strips roughly the width of your lover's conscience. Tie all strips together, making sure to double-knot. Saturate in grape juice. Hang in a place that you don't mind attracting insects. Let the moths take it from there.
6. Paste pictures of more attractive and emotionally equipped people over all photos of your lover.
7. Sob hysterically with regret.
8. Repeat step 7.
9. Repeat step 8.
10. Remember that this started with a shoebox. Fill shoebox with stuffed animal skins, papier-mâché ashes, CD dust, remnants of sticky moth-eaten rag, and improved photos.
11. Dig a hole so deep you can barely see out of it. Climb out of hole. Leave shoebox. Replace dirt. Stomp on the grave, if you didn't get enough stomping in step 3. Spit, if you didn't get enough spitting in step 2.
12. Walk away. Don't look back.
2. Decapitate, dismember, and disembowel stuffed animals. When the stuffing blows away in the wind, pretend it's dandylion fluff, and you just made a wish on a rather large dandylion. Wish to show no mercy. It'll come true.
3. Shred all love letters with your teeth. Bitterly spit on each scrap until all paper is sufficiently damp. Mold scraps into a papier-mâché bust of your lover's head. Let dry over night. Set on fire in the morning.
4. Drag mixed CDs against concrete until the pavement plays your song. Crack CDs in crescent moon halves. Stomp on them until the sidewalk sparkles with shards of love songs.
5. Take scissors to all clothing items. Cut into strips roughly the width of your lover's conscience. Tie all strips together, making sure to double-knot. Saturate in grape juice. Hang in a place that you don't mind attracting insects. Let the moths take it from there.
6. Paste pictures of more attractive and emotionally equipped people over all photos of your lover.
7. Sob hysterically with regret.
8. Repeat step 7.
9. Repeat step 8.
10. Remember that this started with a shoebox. Fill shoebox with stuffed animal skins, papier-mâché ashes, CD dust, remnants of sticky moth-eaten rag, and improved photos.
11. Dig a hole so deep you can barely see out of it. Climb out of hole. Leave shoebox. Replace dirt. Stomp on the grave, if you didn't get enough stomping in step 3. Spit, if you didn't get enough spitting in step 2.
12. Walk away. Don't look back.
Higher Education
I wasted four
years scratching
his back with one
hand, writing her
poetry with the other
years scratching
his back with one
hand, writing her
poetry with the other
13 November 2011
bhakti
I saw the black ink shrine in her mind
singing the polecat with technicolor hair
as she reclined with heavily painted eyelids
I saw the sensuous scene etched on the screen
preparing to be flecked with bright wet brushes
as she touched her tongue to the tip to begin
I saw the bible with soot-smudged pages
banging against the blinds in her bedroom
as she rubbed the canvas with a black rag
I saw the spill of shimmering viscous liquid
dripping down the tips of her stained fingers
as she shuddered at the sound of the shatter
I saw the string of shining prayer beads
resting softly on her cigarette paper neck
as she kissed the canvas
"i won't let her good body go to waste"
11 November 2011
Unwrapped,
I am nothing more than a gray
tangle of half-formed dreams
a headache induced by breathing
in the smoke of my own cigarette
a junkbox of thoughts belonging no
where that may be needed someday
thus spared from a garbage can funeral
though I once told her I was god
and she felt no need to refute it
tangle of half-formed dreams
a headache induced by breathing
in the smoke of my own cigarette
a junkbox of thoughts belonging no
where that may be needed someday
thus spared from a garbage can funeral
though I once told her I was god
and she felt no need to refute it
10 November 2011
A blond nun with black lips
My wings were made of unsturdy words,
and I sold you cheap smiles
in exchange for your services
as a backbrace.
To me, you were the most gorgeous
medical device. The prettiest piece
of lifesaving equipment I'd ever laid eyes on.
You held me in place for how long was it?
You made me feel strong enough
to stand up straight for once.
And then you rusted,
leaving my spine zigzagged
in the most unfortunate contortion,
which forced me to sit, stuck, gnarled
and staring at the floor.
It's been how long now?
And I still can't help but default to looking downward.
and I sold you cheap smiles
in exchange for your services
as a backbrace.
To me, you were the most gorgeous
medical device. The prettiest piece
of lifesaving equipment I'd ever laid eyes on.
You held me in place for how long was it?
You made me feel strong enough
to stand up straight for once.
And then you rusted,
leaving my spine zigzagged
in the most unfortunate contortion,
which forced me to sit, stuck, gnarled
and staring at the floor.
It's been how long now?
And I still can't help but default to looking downward.
wherever she wandered
(she feathers when it freezes)
Evie never thought she needed an identity
she looked in mirrors and fantasized about smashing the glass
Evie always loved a good smashing
when she couldn't get the words to come out right
Evie broke bottles and fed them to her skin
it made her feel warmer sometimes
Evie was cold cold cold lonesome shivery
she had never shivered by herself before
(with wings like a bat in summer)
Evie never thought she needed an identity
she looked in mirrors and fantasized about smashing the glass
Evie always loved a good smashing
when she couldn't get the words to come out right
Evie broke bottles and fed them to her skin
it made her feel warmer sometimes
Evie was cold cold cold lonesome shivery
she had never shivered by herself before
(with wings like a bat in summer)
07 November 2011
To my ink-stained darling,
You were made of bones
only thinner, like thread
only tougher, like leather
only brighter, like branches
only loud, like love,
but you were not
any of these things,
not really.
I was made of plaster,
only thicker, like blood
only fragile, like feathers
only whiter, like paper
only soft, like love,
but I was not
any of these things,
not quite.
We were made of hope,
only thinner, like tethers
only fragile, like lead
only lighter, like blindness
only ugly, like love,
but we were not
anything,
not anything at all.
04 November 2011
Dear Lia,
Lia, I am writing because our stories are gone. They were erased in a shameful fit of sanity, but now that I'm mad again, I need them.
I know that our stories can't come back because you've erased every trace of me, painted over me with thick, white acrylic to make room for something with fewer flaws.
This leaves me to tape up my mouth and bind my hands. This leaves me to chew my tongue and scar my palms with half-moon grooves. This leaves me to bite my nails 'til they bleed, just to keep my hands and mouth too busy to signal something significant.
When it gets dark, I light a candle to you; I wrap my arms around my body straightjacket-style and try to remember what came after once upon a time. The things I remember are better than the things we erased—no grabbing for gold, no accommodating the enemy, no star-crossing, just lovers. And this is the way that it should be. A soft madness cradles me to sleep.
Always,
Desirée
I know that our stories can't come back because you've erased every trace of me, painted over me with thick, white acrylic to make room for something with fewer flaws.
This leaves me to tape up my mouth and bind my hands. This leaves me to chew my tongue and scar my palms with half-moon grooves. This leaves me to bite my nails 'til they bleed, just to keep my hands and mouth too busy to signal something significant.
When it gets dark, I light a candle to you; I wrap my arms around my body straightjacket-style and try to remember what came after once upon a time. The things I remember are better than the things we erased—no grabbing for gold, no accommodating the enemy, no star-crossing, just lovers. And this is the way that it should be. A soft madness cradles me to sleep.
Always,
Desirée
03 November 2011
Dear Kit,
I know you're gone gone gone, dead and reborn as someone else's Robin Hood someone else's Cyrano someone else's Paolo someone else's Lancelot. The two of you rode off into the sunset, and you're still honeymooning. I know you told me once that your kind doesn't get happily ever afters. "Watch the movies," you said. "We always die in the end."
And everyone is dead. They've been reborn in the same bodies, but the people I loved aren't in there anymore. They're all hermit crabs, and I'm in love with the shells.
I know this, that you're gone. I tell myself that my Kit is dead dead dead and not coming back. I tell myself Kit's a new person happily ever after in the same old body, and I say to myself, my Kit is a shell made of watercolor and cotton and fragmented thoughts that lives in a box dead dead dead and buried in my mind.
I know you can't come back. I could play Frankenstein or wish upon a monkey's paw, but you'd still be all wrong. I know this. I know this. I know this, but knowing doesn't stop the wanting.
Always,
Carmilla
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)