I am here, now, at this very moment, because it is raining outside of my bedroom window and because I can’t shake this feeling. I am lying here in the dark, tonight is no different than any other night, but it is - to explain it would be something like trying to put a feeling into words (impossible). I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. Nostalgia on the tip of my tongue and it tastes like shit.
I made you a mixed CD the other day. I wrote, “I think about kissing you a lot” in big black letters in permanent marker on it - but that was my mistake, I tried to make something permanent out of something very temporary, and we both knew that, but we did all of this anyway. I listened to it three times through, drove by the river and had that strange and familiar urge to drive into it again, but I didn’t feel like ruining my car.
I broke that CD that same night; cracked it right in half, straight down the middle, a perfect split.
I don’t think about kissing you at all anymore.
I was born to be here, in this bed with you, your hand resting on my thigh, like we were made that way. The gesture was so natural, your fingertips writing stories into my skin - you knew I wasn’t much of a reader, but I swear my skin was sewn together with your words.
One morning afterwards while we were just lying there, naked and out of breath, you turned to me and propped yourself up on your elbow, licking your lips with that same hungry expression on your face that you always got when the world came together in your head. “I think if you cut us open we would bleed passion.” - You kind of half-whispered it, to me and yourself, like you were trying to convince the both of us.
I still remember the way you searched my eyes for some kind of response like the only thing that mattered was that I thought the same; but I was too busy thinking of what color passion would be - I always told you that our passion was in our blood; it was inside of us, swimming around in our veins, back to our heart, down to our toes, everywhere. It had no color, but you knew it was there. It was too heavy for that.
Yesterday I cut my leg shaving and didn’t notice until I looked down and saw the pink tinted water snaking a tiny stream down into the drain. I found the cut, sat, and watched it bleed - but no matter what I did, it wouldn’t stop. I think those were your words leaking out of my skin.
To this day, I still think of your words whenever I see my blood.
I wish you hadn’t written all of those books into my skin.
I just want to hold your hand
Curtains
but I’m right here
It was March. If I looked outside of my window, I saw snow melting, the sun trying to peek through the persistent overcast skies. I was wearing one of your t-shirts and across it read “Welcome to paradise.” Stupid shirt, I was in hell.
Sometimes I would still call out to you. In the morning when I was still half-asleep and plenty delirious, facing the wall, I would feel your presence behind me, turn to greet you with a good morning, always half-expecting your sleepy smile, your “You and me, love.” Instead met by emptiness. I still pretend you are there at times, sometimes it gets me through the day.
Your absence from my life, this world, everything, would just hit me out of the blue. I remember thinking I heard your laugh while walking through the woods behind my house. You took me there and we laid underneath my favorite tree, on a blanket, and sometimes we couldn’t stop talking, sometimes we couldn’t find any words inside of ourselves. Made love a couple of times, carved our initals into the bark, did drugs and thought we discovered the meaning of life. I sat against that tree and cried until nothing was left inside of me, drained, hollow, empty. I am sitting beneath our tree right now, just me, no you, and I am cold here without you. This place only had significance with you here, now it kind of drains the life out of me - leaves me worn out fried wrecked obliterated tired burnt out, exhausted.
I still remember that night, the phone call, you and me, no, me, just me now. I remember the way my heart broke, inside of my chest, crushed into a million little pieces, floating around trying to find their way back together, an irreparable puzzle, the game of life, congratulations, you lost.
At your funeral I lied and said I hadn’t seen you in three months. It took every ounce of willpower I had to not drive into oncoming traffic afterwards, anything to hear you say it one more time, but killing myself meant killing what was left of you inside of my heart, and I could not die just because you could no longer live.
I want you to know that I am sorry. I feel you here with me sometimes, inside of my heart and inside of my mind, behind me when I am pouring a cup of coffee, when I cannot find it in me to get out of bed some mornings. I’m sorry you felt this world wasn’t enough for you, that I wasn’t enough for you, that for some sad reason, inside of your tired little head, you were never enough for anyone, especially not yourself.
You were dead long before that dreadful day in December. An empty soul attached to a lively body, it didn’t make sense to you, everything you’ve ever known jumbled around inside of your head. When you put the gun to your head, were you thinking about me? I think you were so focused on winning, you did it love, you finally figured it out - the only way to get rid of the demons inside of your head was to force them out yourself.
One bullet, eviction notice on the door, one second, you and me, the next, no more you, just me, barely me, all you, crimson staining the blue paint of our bedroom walls. No more you, no more me, just in different ways.
You might have escaped them, but these demons are clever. They found life inside of my head right after I opened the door and found you there, no longer alive to some, but finally free to me.
I am laying here, against this tree, looking at the sky, which has just opened up, the sun trying it’s best to peek through. For a while I thought I couldn’t breathe without you, but I can see my breath in front of my face, a foggy kind of white, disappearing into the atmosphere, still there but invisible, changed, kind of like me.
There was life before you and there will be life after you. If you can hear me, I want you to know I miss you, I love you, I’m sorry, I forgive you, I will forget you for a while, but I will always remember you.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
I want you, you, you, you and you but especially you. You with the tight jeans loose in the ass ketchup stain on your white t-shirt with the shaky hands at the table facing mine. Gave me the eyes once or twice and my hands that never shake are lighting a cigarette and I know you are staring, like you have been, you are waiting for me to wonder who you are, inhale, I don’t care who you are, look up, you are looking into my eyes, exhale, I am looking into yours, something no one else has done because I can feel the way you just became interested in me, I still don’t care, you want to know who I am, I just want your hands on my body. I have a hunger for the want in your eyes, I feed off of it, I am everything you ever wanted and nothing you can ever have. Your eyes are wide, green, alive, staring into my tired eyes, red-rimmed, bags underneath. I blow smoke in your general direction, you shift around in your chair, I still do not care, what you do not know is that I am too sad to give a fuck. I am tired of love, it does not exist inside of my brain, I am incapable of loving another person. I barely love myself, I know you see that, I know you can feel it in my stare. I raise an eyebrow and I have you in the palm of my hand and this is all in the chase, you are mine now, maybe for tonight, maybe forever, I will let you touch me and I will feel nothing because I have never felt anything. You are looking into my eyes, the desperate search for something in mine kind of turns me on, you lick your lips, like I am the game and you are some kind of predator. Oh no, no, no lover boy, you have it all mixed up, you are backwards, you are hoping I will give you everything, I will give you nothing, I will squeeze the life out of you, wring you out to dry, you cannot find love inside of this vessel, it does not exist here, I am all for your head in between my legs and watching you walk out of my front door the next morning, there has never been anything more than that, I am incapable of that. I will forget you, sipping cold coffee in my underwear realizing for the first time that morning how empty my apartment is. Tomorrow I will find a new boy to help erase you from my brain, loose jeans, tight in all the right places, mustard stain on his chin, always shaky hands, always bright eyes, alive and beautiful, waiting to be loved by a dead girl.
(Source: skin-n-bones)
June 8th, 2011 - 2:46am
It is almost three o’clock in the morning and I am not tired at all. I am actually very tired. I am the kind of tired that sleep cannot fix. I am laying on my stomach in a bed that does not belong to me and I am thinking of how maybe we all see things differently. Maybe the colors and the shapes and the vivacity of things I am looking at through these eyes are not the same colors and shapes as you are seeing right now reading these words on your computer screen with probably your hand against your face and one of your legs tucked under your ass. Why are you here? Why are you reading these words? For the first time in your life you are at a loss for words. I am laying here on my stomach on this bed that is not mine and I have all the right answers. I know exactly how everything will play out. I have all the right words and I know how to string them along in sentences that will make your heart ache in the kind of way that will make you close your eyes and sit back and you will feel my words soaking through your skin and into the steady stream of your bloodflow and they will travel down to your toes and back up to your heart and they will find a home there and you might wake up tomorrow morning and realize that everything I am saying is so right and how could you have ever thought differently and maybe you will look out of your window and hear things you have never heard before like a small girl laughing as she jumps into a street full of cars while her mother is too busy texting the man she is cheating on her husband with things that mean nothing to him but everything to her or maybe you will hear the sigh of a teenage girl on a bench waiting for her bus looking into her compact mirror and loathing the way her nose is too big or her teeth not white enough and the sigh of the boy next to her who has always been next to her, maybe her whole entire life, maybe for a couple minutes, the lovely sigh of a boy who sees things in a girl that she could never see herself. I am ugly and I am raw but I am everything you have ever needed and craved and I am in the air you breathe and in the water you hate to drink and in the finger with the scrape on the knuckle you shove down your throat in hopes of something better tomorrow because you do not understand time and you do not understand that it gets better just hold on please I know your fingers hurt I know your wrists ache but that is okay, it will be okay, I will kiss your scars as you heal I will sit by your side and hold your hand I will write invisible secrets and paragraphs and maybe a book into your skin at night while you sleep warm next to me. You think you want to die, but in reality you just want to be saved. If you think it is all over with right now, stop for a moment, yes, you right there, sitting at your computer reading these words, these words that have grasped onto something deep inside of you because if they had not you would still not be reading this you would have gone off gotten something to eat complained to someone masturbated insulted someone you don’t even know anonymously because it gave you that sense of pride and accomplishment you are lacking and have been lacking for a very long time. If you think it is all over with right now, stop, and breathe, stop, and remember - you have not even lived yet. You are alive and you have not even lived yet. What a sad thing to read and breathe in and realize.
May 11th, 2011 - 10:55pm
Wake up every morning only to wish you hadn’t and what has this life become? A series of the same events each and everyday and you still go to bed at night with nothing but your sheets to give your lonely heart the reassurance it requires every single fucking night. Two hours later and you’re turning over wishing for someone else’s breath on your neck and masturbating just doesn’t do the trick anymore. Old coffee sitting in the coffee pot and a half-eaten box of donuts on the counter; you eat around the jelly filling and he finishes it for you. Simple things trigger painful memories - words, television commercials, your empty hand. I was sitting on a bench in some park in my town I’ve never noticed before and a girl approached me and told me she wished she could eat up my sadness. I looked at her like it was the first time I have never really looked at a person before and she saw that, she saw it and she told me she hoped my depression didn’t eat me alive and at that moment I knew that no matter how long I looked at her with those eyes she would not understand. This is not depression, this is a sadness in the pit of my heart, this is something I was born with and something I will die with. This is catching the clock at 12:34, the nicotine high after your first cigarette in a couple of days, looking at someone with feelings and they only speak to you in words. This is something bigger than you me this bench and the ground beneath your tired feet. This will break you, it will fucking break you in half. Clean cut 33 stitches and no one sends you flowers one card from your grandma with a five dollar bill slipped inside and you turn over in your hospital bed and your throat is burning and you cannot breathe and you realize do not want to die anymore, you just don’t want to live.
April 23rd, 2011 - 11:15pm
White sheets white walls white furniture I am drowning in this color that is not even a color. My brain is all washed out but I swallow three more pretty pills because I know what I will be after this. I am used to this feeling of nothing, of this white, of this mind-numbing life. They say you are not defined by your actions, but by the content of your character. What the fuck does that mean? I am defined by these pills. I am defined by the amount of drugs swimming around in my brain, by the amount of beautiful words spoken to me by semi-beautiful boys in not-at-all-beautiful hotel rooms on highways in towns and cities and states I can’t even locate on a map. I don’t know you but I know your hands; they travel up and down my legs like they’ve known them since before time started. Staring up at a white ceiling and I try to remember the last time I swallowed my three pretty pills. The ceiling is white, it washes my mind, your hands are between my legs, and I do, not feel a, thing. I don’t make a noise and you don’t care you make enough for the both of us and how could you get pleasure out of this the only pleasure I get is through these pills and why is every ceiling fucking white? I used to like white and now it is nothing more than something that lives beneath my skin and eats me alive when I am asleep. It is another monster to add to the list, a five letter word that haunts me in my dreams, along with you and these pills, and those hands. Your hands are dirty and my brain melts onto the bed right beneath your filthy knees and what state am I in again? I hope I’m in Kansas and click my heels together three times there’s no place like home there’s no place like home there’s no place like home and I open my eyes to a white ceiling a man in between my thighs and three pretty pills on the bed-side table. I am never in fucking Kansas.
