Confessions, Obsessions and things to lust over,
Things you love,
Things you hate,
Things that you wish you could always set a date for,
Scars, meaningless words and a place filled with silence,
Things that just make you break,
Make you bleed,
Make you wish that you never believed,
In things that make you happy,
Because, sadness seems to be the only thing you feel,
That even feels close to something real,
With my arms wrapped around you so tight - I cannot help you...
Gently touching your face - I cannot help you,
With my lips against yours in place,
Disappointment, broken promises and this thing called, 'faith',
As my heart shatters into pieces,
Am I here or am I asleep?
Because, I feel so numb in my defeat,
I cannot help you,
Because, you wont let me,
Why can't I help you?
...Just let me help you.
Please. Please.
Four rings, and my little sister
says hello, how are you, and tells me
about her dinner. I hear their voices
in the background. Five weeks,
I have flourished without her,
and before the receiver is passed,
my eyes become lakes that I never wanted
to fill. Ten minutes, is the message,
she will call you. I am shaking
already. I do not understand
my body or the attachments that blood
creates. I wish we could go back to the
days of innocence, when she loved me
truthfully. All the lies and substance
got to her. I miss when we could giggle
over cartoons and cheap tea. Does she
know how much she means to me, or
what her betrayal has done to wear me
down. I hope so. I need to feel safe.
I need her to know that shes loved.
I wonder if shes filling my head
with hope, and good memories
for nothing. False hopes.
She used to amaze me.
Sisters now, Sisters always.
1.
You are still awake at exactly four-eighteen a.m., and you
have not had a single drop of coffee, which you typically take with one
teaspoon of sugar and just enough cream to make it two shades darker
than your skin, one shade darker than his. He has been sleeping in your
bed for three hours already. You are in the living room, counting the
illuminated windows in the building across the street. You hear him
making nightmare noises, but you do not go to him, you do not place
your hand on his back to calm him. You are breaking routine.
2.
It
rained for the first time all summer. You put your lips against the
glass and felt the drops crashing into it. Your breath created a fog,
but you were not looking. Just this once, you said, it was better to
listen. There was a print left behind, a half-smile, an
I-miss-you-but-it-hurts smile. The kind that gives us something to
wonder about. The sky stayed grey. Pay attention, she told you. Pay
attention.
3.
You make a list of your meaningful
lovers. Chamomile tea. An old typewriter that your mother bought for
you at a flea market when you were eight years old. The Atlantic,
strictly from the New England coastline. A city or two. There are no
names of boys. There are no pairs of hands.
4.
The
room is weighed down with a heavy scent that you do not recognize. Your
thumbs and fingertips are red from paint, but his own are flawless.
Clean. Find the symbolism in that. And in the knot of your telephone
cord that you blame, and the dream about running through a strange city
soaking from a thunderstorm because you couldn't find a doorway to
stand in, and someone somewhere was chasing. He does not wake you.
[I]
I have never adorned black
robes. I wonder what pills
cause your eyes to build
the shrouds around me.
[II]
I want to play piano,
and make my voice louder,
in attempts to translate
my thoughts into song.
[III]
A camera taken to the streets.
The lense didn't show them
correctly. The photos will never
ever compare to my memories.
I gave up. Putting the camera
in my pocket to let my eyes soak
the city in while they still can.
[IV]
I am either alone or suffocating.
Thirty-four hours, and you're
already (all ready) asking for pieces.
[V]
It would be easier
to give you my limbs.
