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Dear woman with your cancer stick I saw today in quest, I noticed hovering overhead a cloud in light grey dress. I thought perhaps it was failing vision as I am with some poor eyes but then as I walked closer still it spoke of your demise. Your lungs I'm sure are black as soot and that cloud proclaimed they're doomed. It stayed on top your feathered head and on only you it loomed. I hear that sometimes carrots help or maybe gum to chew so please put out that butt of yours and go off and buy a few.
What has happened to me over the years? I don't know where I am from. Or if those things I call memories are really mine at all. What are you waiting for? You know me better than anyone. I come to you for my own refection. But you show me a girl so crazed and dizzy wandering in a big sea of eyes, searching for something that's already there. And then I think I know but I always end up asking where am I going? Where do I belong this time? I think you better than I. So tell me.
There's a picture of Joshua Tree on the wall in my family room just above a few gashes in the pale-beige wall where a bookcase once was. My grandfather, the martini-drinking-cigar-smoking-cowboy, took that picture. It's full of these little yellow flowers littered about a valley floor interrupted with a few unsteady faded-green tuffs. He framed the shot from under a curving branch of one of the trees with the prickly palm-like leaves questioning the boarder. It's simple but the way he took it, it looks like it goes on for centuries. What else matters with a picture like that?
Sitting there with you in my arms, my cheek on your back, listening to that song, the worst feeling rushed over me. A little dew was forging the corners of my eyes but I quietly brushed them away. My nervous fluttering heart is back but this one's different. Someone said I had a fear of failure but this is a fear of losing the closest thing to me. I want it so badly to be my bewitching imagination but something small deep deep inside says otherwise and it's the most terrifying thing to ever rape my heart and it hurts.
I tumbled out of my junglegym dreams into a world for the first time spared from the restless dizziness of regret and grudge. The floor was harder than most but not unbarable to the matressed feet. Soft as fawn, prancing through and through the morning routine, I discovered a smile beneath the waking delerium. In it was that pot of gold forever more enticed in daydreams, which now for the first time cuddled with me in the dawn braving the day hand in hand. Latch undone on shutters worn, the sunlight pouring in like orange juice. Good morning, Sweet Life.
My brain is zipped up with the necessities into a ripping backpack. About a week after I had it fixed it ripped again in the same place fitting only too well into the frame of my nineteen years. I'm headed off for the dark room again to process my life into a game of pictionary where there is no one right or wrong answer. Maybe this time my thoughts wont be so misunderstood. Words aren't arbitrary per se but get me in trouble too easily. At least this time I can blame it on artistic expression instead of incomprehensible rational.
I think I've earned the right to be lazy, just this once. I want to go to his house and just lay on a raft next to him in his pool. I want to fall asleep reading The Hobbit. I want to pay someone to do this work for me. I don't know why I'm doing it, what the point is. Seriously, am I EVER going to use this again? Would I want to have the kind of job where I WOULD use it? I don't want to worry about things anymore. I want to relax. I'm going to relax. Bring on the slacker.
Good morning, Endlessness. I'm breaking through walls with the creeping dawn but a piano keys my car and I have to stop and feel it. The taste of seduction in the musty-plush of a stuffed cat and the whisper of violins with the background vocals of the people passing by can't disguise the grappling-hands reaching out below my surface. Windex on the eyes will never steal my gaze away. Every time I look up I see your face in a stranger, an illusion rough as sandpaper. Then I fall back to sleep, killing time with paced breathing and tangled sheets.
It smelt of pools on the way to class today. It reminded me of summer camps I've never been to but oddly have memories for. I stopped worrying about that nervous laugh of your when you say those words. I mean everything I say, for once in my life, and it feels so good. My gibberish ramblings don't bother me so much anymore. I'm happier here, even when things get tedious and envy surges through my veins, I'm happier with these new sounds and dreams and smiles and more than relieved to have finally found what I've been looking for.
I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by the possibilities and just content that I have them. But every once in a while my ambition gets caught up in my throat as I try to breath in and out at once to save time. I end up with a hysterical hackle that sounds more distressing than it really is. I miss my bursts of energy and now all I get is nervous. I'll just turn up the music then and cover my walls with pictures of pretty things. Distractions are way underrated and I am just a kid, it's always playtime.
I saw a bumper sticker on the freeway that read "I'd rather be online."Scary. I still find phone conversations awkward, no matter who they are with. One of my teachers admitted to taking up teaching because his design jobs drove him mad from depriving him of human contact. My second computer is failing me after just a year of semi dedicated service. Technology makes people fat and dependent. It murders people skills, it breaks, and it gives you radiation. How about we learn how to be patient again. Send a letter to me and let's have a dinner party.
Today was simple but you made everything so much better. I love being in your arms, and that laugh of yours with the gasping pause in the middle, the way you look at me so inquisitively all the time and how you make me wonder why you do, the way you smile sparingly but endearingly, how you mumble and take up the whole bed. I find myself unarmed by your kisses, numbed by your passion, and melting constantly. The sheer thought of you sends giddy shivers down my chest, a longing in my breathing, and a dreaminess in my eyes.
My eyes have turned to ice-cubes. I don't know why I can't handle good things, mess-ups, life in general. I've run short of an outlet that sticks so my dreams become bitterly opinionated and wanton. I feel like my pillow's done up with peanut-butter so now when I wake up everything's just a tad bit sticky. I want my jam smothered all over me and two crusts of comfort and consistency on either side so the proportions are small enough to swallow. I want hands to catch the dribbles before they dirty the whole room. I want to leave stains.
Can you reach inside me and pull out this thistle I have wedged between my heart and head? It's telling me to jump on the train and choo choo off into the undying sunset, bareback. It's telling me to drop it all except the good things and suckle off the sweet nectar of sultry freedom instead of the rational cornflakes that brood in misguiding mothers and fitful fathers. It's telling me to fill the sails with cold air hot air whatever it takes and sail away to a paradise that only exists in down feathers and messy sheets. It's tempting.
Tie me to the mast, let me feel the sea in my salty locks. Strap me to the rocket, let me pick the stars from my teeth. Bait me on the hook, let me be bit till I'm numb. I want to feel something else than these gazelles prancing from organ to organ on the heartbeat their little horns prickling the soft spots. They make me cry. Big don't cry. I want to know what it's like to not have this bubble in my throat and cool gurgle with my deep sighs. Maybe I'll do it. But with a pen.
I'm afraid of taking bubble baths. Of getting lost in the foam. Of floating away with the steam. I'm afraid of falling asleep in there. Of drowning. Most of all of drowning. Maybe if I light some tea candles, eggshell in color. And sip some wine, no, strawberry champagne. Maybe it won't be so scary. Maybe I can dream with my eyes open so I know when the water's edging up on me. Maybe I can get lost in the foam and still know where I am. I'll just keep my eyes open. That's it! Now, who'll scrub my back?
There's this and there's that and I do both and I'm done early but I still have this nagging anxiety like a little kid in the candy isle pulling at my jeans saying notice me notice me. I see you, you vile vermon! And there's nothing I can do about it. I miss you. That's all there is. I miss you and I have to wait. So I wait and I keep busy. I clean, I paint, I write, I read, I bite my pinky nail, I twirl my superman blue hair, and I think of you. Come save me.
I remember back when my family used to have successful family vacations to this one summer when we camped in this springy place with a plethora of mosquitoes and how my oldest sister was bit on the eyelid. It swelled up three times its size. Quasimodo I called her. I don't think she liked that. We had to keep guard by the washroom door to make sure no one came in... someone came in and she leapt into the corner to hide. So embarrassed. But just for the record, if you ever looked like that I would still love you.
There is nothing quite like it. It's like a firework only not so loud. It's not simple like a peck on the cheek when no one's looking. It feels more like sneaking into the back room and locking the door then rolling around on the floor only quietly and for just a second. No, that's not right. It's like kissing my back or breathing on my shoulder when you sleep but softer and in bursts. Or like when someone jumps out at you then kisses you passionately before you have a chance to react. Do it again, squeeze my hand.
Apples. I like apples my mom made baked apples this morning. My dad called and said "hey I made crepes come home" so I came home and there were the crepes and an apple for me. I remember she used to buy them by the crateful. So many apples. She asked me to put the Christmas dishes away. So I did. I didn't mind so much. It was good to keep busy. I kept checking. Did I have the phone in my pocket? It's almost time. Yeah. I like apples. They're, apple-ly. There should be a patron saint for apples.
I'm sorry you were sick. I'm sorry my hands didn't care. I'm sorry my lips didn't care. I'm sorry my body didn't care. I care but they do their own thing sometimes, you know? It's not my fault really. It's the chemistry. I can't help it. It's not your fault either you've bewitchingly attracted me. It's not your fault you make me feel so good, so happy, even when you're not here. It's not your fault and it's not mine. I don't blame you. Please forgive me. I can't help but want your hand in mine, to have you close.
I'm not really sure what I want to be. I'm young but it'd still be nice to know. I wish I could play piano and guitar. I'd like to have the option of having a family so I guess stability would come in handy there. I could teach I suppose. That's pretty stable. I could always write. I know I can be dedicated and I don't really get behind in my work. So I should be good at anything but I want to have fun, free-time, and money to buy my mum that house. A professional lottery winner. That works.
A bandaid on the buzz cut Barbie, hammer hits the nail varnish chipping, a message shoved in letterbox scantrons, and a restless sleep tonight. Nothing saved the damsel distressing while nothing passed the time in wait and nothing said in lengthy pause with nothing lost still something missing. Something in the sleep ground teeth, something in the silence waking, something there and waiting for a lip to kiss goodnight. An orange blossom, teddy bear with sugar plum dreams and vanilla hair, something to make sense of nonsense something to look forward to. Something to de-fragment pavement broken by impatient trees.
How do I map myself out of those translucent eyes? How do I think of anything else? How do I not run out of sheep to count lying awake at night hoping maybe by some miracle they'll be there in the morning? Three times the charmer a saint to me take me again. Suffocate me for a second with your red smothering mine. I need no moment more to know it. I like getting lost. Take me in. We can figure 8 till the ice falls in because I'm already drowning in those translucent eyes. Or just hold my hand.
Lovesick's the kind of sick you get all over the inside of your body. It's a worry filled tremble that makes you subtly queasy and your breathing heavy. It feels like there's a hole somewhere where trickles of nervousness form as tear drops, seeping out of the corners of your distant, saggy eyes. You're not hungry any more. You dont sleep well. You lay awake staring at a wall concentrating on how far away they are instead of remembering how constant their presence really is, how you're thinking about them and they're thinking about you. How you love each other.
I wake up and think about you. I sit next to you sleeping and think about you. I run my fingers through your hair and think about you. I kiss you awake and think about you. You look at me with those deep eyes, those deep quiet eyes, I see something, and think about you. I feel dizzy and sea sick but I keep thinking about you about that something. You fall asleep and I think about how much you mean to me. I fall asleep too. Close to you I feel peaceful. It'll be okay because I love you.
I'm going to take this pea that's appeared between us and put it under my foot and SMASH IT. And that'll be the end of peas. I have a world to share with you and I don't want to keep any of it to myself and I want that to be okay. What happens between our goodbyes and hellos are no match for what you are to me. I want you just to remember what you say you already know and hold me close and kiss me and love me. They're just distractions because I miss you so much, Bunny.
Everytime I try to focus on the blackboard of the day my vision blurs and the dial on the radio starts to spin. I see peculiar fantasies smuged in the chalk, figures with no name and no home, dreams trapped in the feathers of my pillow, flightless but levitating in the secret passageways of the kindergarten in my head. A humming comes from outside my window. It blows through my tinsel hair and whispers lyrics to a song I've always known. In the words I see a place like something found in an attic, faded, precious, or made of sand.
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