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you have somewhere to go, and the traffic is picking up outside. i am afraid that you will be twenty-five minutes late, if you keep stalling here, in my kitchen. you have not buttoned your coat, and you haven't put your shoes on. where do you plan on driving that car? the windows are frozen over with slush, and it only has a half tank of gasoline. the passenger seatbelt is broken, and the rear-view mirror is shattered. we should start buying black and white film for that camera, color just makes us look so blank. color just makes us look so blank.
it's good to have pictures in your wallet, in case you forget what your children and lovers look like. it's good in case anyone finds you dead on the side of the road, so that they can see what kind of a person you were. if you ever lose your wallet, maybe someone will return it to you, if they like the pictures. maybe if they think you know all the right kinds of people, they'll take pity on your loss. maybe the heavy, omnipotent stare of your first daughter, in her sweet sixteen ballgown, will guilt them into bringing it back.
i went through your things today. i was surprised to find no trace of my existance there. there were clothes on the floor, and a failed english paper a meter or so from your trashcan. you were never much with words, i don't know why i never noticed before. i found forty cents in pennies, scattered all around the floor. i counted them all, but did not bend to touch them. i turned them all heads up in my mind, so that they could watch you when you came home at night, if you ever did. you and your lies, your untied shoes.
the hinges on your door squeak whenever you come home. we always had our doubts about you. you should have stopped running long enough to see the signs, but instead you fell right over the cliffs into the sea. we still don't know if you suffered, or if the current was quick and merciless. depending on my mood, sometimes i wish both. maybe you deserved a quick exit. or maybe all along, you deserved the pain of a slow death. maybe i knew too much to have helped you. maybe i never knew enough. you slipped right through the cracks.
traveller, i vote that your next stop should be the sun. perhaps you will burn up there, and never come back to earth. i can't explain the strange uneasiness that i recall, whenever you swing too close to my fraction of the world. you know nothing of really owning a place. you've never really seen anything for the first time, you are blind. i understand now that you are not timeless or a satellite, because every word i said to you was only mimiced by your mirror-like mouth. you don't know me traveller, you were born into ruins that you don't love.
i got your note yesterday, it was half-pasted to my bedroom mirror. i half read it. you never spell out the words, you only abbreviate them. you abbreviate everything. your existance was abbreviated. i have forgotten what you sound like, and what face you make in photographs. i have also remembered, that i never really knew what you sounded like, and that you only make one face in photographs, but i have never been able to capture it. maybe that's why i hate you; you have always evaded my lens. somehow you always manage to hide your face from me.
we had an argument. we had a nasty, heated, sprawling brawl about nothing. there were no raised voices; no neighbors with their ears pressed to the walls. we waged war upon eachother; by daring to speak.
there was a raincoat in a pile on the floor. it was bleeding in cold pools in the corner, and it smelled like iron and old books. this happened in a room that i was never in.
there was a box of old keys on your bookshelf.
against the wall by your door, there are three pairs of shoes.
you know they're all there,
but she doesn't.
hello coloring fluid;
you are really only a mirror image of someone else.
you draw the lovliest pictures, my camera obscura, i don't know how i'd give myself away without you.
how would i paint my surreal portraits, if you weren't at my disposal?
i see that you've become a common flyer on the brick wall of a city alley. your likeness is mass produced and you've lost value, like a glass diamond. you are costume jewelery, and i wear your skin to parties, where i shed you for my lovers like a cheap dress. i know where you went wrong.
i went walking in the snow.
my footprints had frozen into the ice, a glass map of where i was going.
you tried to fit your bootheels into my tread, but failed. you put your gloved fist up against my handprint on the window. you don't match me.
you tried on my clothes when i was gone;
you watched yourself in the mirror, you laid in the middle of the floor for two days. my black coat, black shoes.
you shied away from yourself; when you saw how badly you failed at fitting my bones.
i made your bed,
like i made your grave.
i emptied out all of my drawers, and counted twenty-seven used batteries. there were six used batteries on the floor. two in my coat pocket; three in my purse. there were five on a table down the hall, and ten in a box that i emptied out while i was looking for paint.
i emptied seventeen of them out into a trashcan.
your disgarded gold and black remains.
i grive now, for your faults. you were only battery-powered, darling. you were temporary, unimpressive, and weak.
you are a trail of dead metal;
magnets and corrosive slime.
we were not electric, that was a lie.
our room is half painted.
you said it had character; in an unfinished, naked, raw kind of way. if it were a person, you said it would have wide, wet eyes. i found you sitting there one afternoon, staring at the wall.
with someone you had created and clothed, a girl with wide, wet eyes.
you are smoke and mirrors,
the opposite of east and july. we played a liar's game of chess, with missing pieces. there were bones and buttons where your knights should have been. that game was drawn.
i will never hate you, or trust you.
a good muse only causes pain.
mrs. johnson, we excavated thirty seven bones from the diamond mine in your backyard.
they are strangely shaped, and seem to be human, but we just cannot discern the nature of these burn marks, these scratches, these hollowed and rounded pieces.
can we resort to extremist thinking?
your house rests on the graveyard of something horrible.
carbon dating tells us that many years ago there were lovers trapped in this coal pit under your house, they drank the marrow from eachother's skeletons, they bathed this mass of hardened earth in blood and flesh.
we are afraid there was no sign of escape, how strange.
curly-haired girl, i have found you!
you evaded my searching for many years, i cannot understand why.
there was a bent tree by a river, in the place that we last stood. we were many years younger, but when i recall our last words, you would not have known. we thought we didn't have far to go, but look at how many miles we spent in the process.
what was i looking for?
do i even know?
do you know, curly-haired girl?
your hair was never really that curly. it was the same color as mine, we were almost sisters.
i am sorry,
i didn't look hard enough.
you are water in a glass bowl.
you have stopped me from drowning, many times.
i am lucky to have your name on my lips, i am luckier still to borrow your light.
i can see my face in yours, you are reflective and shapeless. you're whatever you want to be.
i am not mistaken,
we fit eachother seamlessly; we are the mask and the mold, the human imprint that tells it how to bend.
there is a morbid underside to every story;
how disfigured would we be if we broke apart?
we have intertwined together over time;
twisting like vines..
the blood in your veins is mine.
you have the sky in a jar on your desk, i have seen it. the stars rise and stick to the sides like condensation, the clouds fill and recede, pushing against the glass sides of that restraint you keep them in.
how did you fit the heavens in that jar?
i like to watch them turn colors as they think and move. i like to watch the lightning spark like blue fire, against your books, your picture frames. the sweet froth of summer storms, the wicked black of midnight.
i am afraid i will be the one to let her go; forgive me.
i am sorry for leaving you in the dust.
when i saw you, i wanted to start talking about life, love, books, the labels on soup cans, anything. but instead, we sunk to our seperate corners, we sunk like things that were not yet dead, but dying.
you know we're hanging on by a thread,
because we aren't belly-up on the surface.
not yet, we're still just falling, soundlessly, and without sufficient speed.
you're one of many that i could not save. i didn't even feel the need to reach out to you; you're one of the souls that i was meant to smother.
we should not have read the fine print!
there were things inscribed on the bones in our backs that made us to stand upright; there were secrets burnt into the lattices of our eyes, things we have seen that were not for repeating.
these tales don't make fine stories, there's a reason they die with their keepers.
who was i to open that book..
to drink from that cup, and know your taste-
i have stepped on every crack in the sidewalk,
i have broken many backs.
i am a danger to you and everyone around me.
you will do well to forget the day i was born.
esikmos have 52 different names for snow, because it is so special to them.
i can recall how it feels to stand face to face with you, matching limbs. i have been close enough to breathe in your air, after it expanded and lifted in your chest. i wonder if strangers on the street envy me, for how close i have been to you.
i have painted your face,
combed your hair,
kissed your wounds,
soothed your pain.
i have fallen asleep, interlocked with you.
we drink out of the same cup, hear the same music.
you are my snow; i have countless names for you, darling.
saint petersburg, you are my city, i have claimed you. i got my first black eye at a show, while i was with you. i have spent many late nights driving around your never-ending one way streets. many hours dancing, and singing, were spent with you.
i spent many days on your white sand, i waded out to my waist in your thick, stormy water. i felt your thunder, and the screaming of gulls, and someone on the shore yelling for me to come back there because- it is not safe,
it is always safe. you are never calm.
i should be quick to throw myself into the ravine, but what is keeping my shoes so fixed to the pavement?
i can only hope that i have not yet met. i am not that old; but i can only speak for my flesh. i have seen more than i ever wanted to; so why do i thirst?
i sat in the library today and wondered who wrote all of those books. i wondered how many lives were poured into those volumes.. i watched the shelves and realized that we are all just books,
you cannot change the color of your own spine.
i watched you stare at yourself in a window for three hours. you are something far worse than persistent, you are arrogant, and cruel. your strain to impress me isn't what did you in- it was your harsh words, your ill ambition.
i'm not impressed at all, that you know how to wield a foolish sword with your mouth.
i have nothing for you,
please see yourself to the door, leave your key under the mat.
you are not beautiful,
you are not beautiful,
you are an ugly, lying son of a bitch,
and i know that you know absolutely nothing at all,
nothing at all.
i could hear them screaming from the shore!
i knew that they were waiting for me to wash up in the shallows, polished smooth like a gem from the rough washes of sea, that i have been steeping in for so long.
i knew that they were ravenous with delight, and pained with their heavy weight of curiosity and distrust.
i could see them there, barefooted and stripped to their strange half-clothes. so windcombed and breathless. when they had sucked the life from my bones, they would leave me.
washed up and covered in sand,
they would leave me there to die.
i don't remember finding you.
i didn't trip upon your remains when i went walking in the forest, and i never asked you your name, i didn't know it.
i can remember a time when i sat next to you in anxious discomfort. it seems strange to me now to think there was a time when i couldn't touch you. i can slightly recall what you looked like then, but only because of the pictures.
you were blue and resilient and estranged from me, so far away that i am surprised we ever met.
held up so high over my head,
we sat outside in the dark and waited for the crumbling sound of his wheels on the pavement. we pulled grass out of the cracks in the sidewalk, and skipped pebbles while we perched there on the curb, waiting to be lifted and taken away.
it's still lying if you leave it out.
is it ever okay to lead someone into that dark swell of tide? i cannot say i am any better, or any more glorious than you,
but i know that you don't mean it when you apologize,
and sorry is nothing but a stone in your mouth.
a heavy, common stone.
carnivorous beast, look at the havoc you have drawn here.. look at the hell you have wreaked, the things you've broken in your wild tirade.. you've brought us this violent destruction and wrath, in return for what?
i want you to imagine yourself laying in the bottom of a river.
i want you to feel the murky sand at its core, the winding green ribbons of grass in its cold soil.
i want you to envision the water in your lungs,
i want you to hear its gray moaning;
and i want you to know,
that i will never be the water running over your bones.
"i like watching you drown," she said.
never fool yourself into thinking you have something in common with me.
don't ever think, that we could stand on mutual ground; you know very well that i am from a different world than you.
you have somehow discovered a quantum wormhole in between our dimensions, that has allowed you to know that i exist;
and you have watched me through that window like a magic mirror. you have become quite confused, you have followed me too far into the dark and have become hopelessly lost.
i didn't bring you here;
and i won't lead you home.
seraphim was writing her a sonnet.
i watched him put his pen down on his desk as he drowned deep inside his mind. i knew that he would use that sonnet many times, on many other women, and that they would all read it and turn him away. no one ever challenged his debauchery. and he was very sick, i could tell, but i had never used it against him. i had seen his black tongue, but not his black heart. i lied for him to myself.
i did not want to condemn seraphim, but he shone that light on himself.
existance is a radar map.
we are all flying around on different layers of the same picture; there are millions of us.
somehow, your path crossed with mine-
oh what are the odds!
we have found eachother!
and i am sick with joy, that i can say i've spent breath with you.
we sat down on the floor, and you absorbed my black tears like a sponge. you enclosed yourself around me, and gave me somewhere to hide. i dragged my broken pieces into the warm darkness of your arms; and you are only too good, it is you that keeps me seeing, keeps me breathing.
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