Today you graspedthe stars asthey were slipping offthe edge of my horizonand shook them backinto the sky.You arequicksilvercan leave meslow-footed wordless.My skin is alivewith the soft imprintof your mouth.How many miraclescan there be?As I burnt your lettersthe pages spread and curledbloomedlike fire rosesCynthia Fuller
Can't get here soon enough.I want to be bitten. I want to be chilled. Sedate me.Oversized sweaters and blankets and mugs filled with steaming chocolate. Or hot buttered rum. I want to hibernate my heart.
A phantom A memoryAn echo A trick your mind plays on youon long trips far from homeCatherine at your windowLet me in.
The Mean Girls Are Rarely What You Might Expect.The fairest of my friends - the ones with killer smiles, perfect skin and shiny hair - are the sweetest. They are not threatened by the idea of anyone usurping their friendships, their lives, their loves. Confident in who they are and what they have.The mean girls are the gaggle who hide behind their hands whispering malicious gossip. Terrified that without the bond created by cruelty they may have nothing. They know how empty they are - despite the proclamations to the contrary.And I am a perfect target.
Sometimes words shatter me.Not because they apply to me - but because they are just RIGHT. You can feel what the writer was feeling. It makes you ache. It also makes my fingers itch because I need to write. I need to make that person who felt that song into a living character.This song does that to me:Bury all your secrets in my skinCome away with innocence and leave me with my sinsThe air around me still feels like a cageAnd love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage againSo if you love me let me goAnd run away before I knowMy heart is just too dark to careI can't destroy what isn't thereDeliver me into my fateIf I'm alone I cannot hateI don't deserve to have youOoh, my smile was taken long agoIf I can change I hope I never knowI still press your letters to my lipsAnd cherish them in parts of me that savor every kissI couldn't face a life without your lightsBut all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fightSo save your breath, I will not careI think I made it very clearYou couldn't hate enough to loveIs that supposed to be enough?I only wish you weren't my friendThen I could hurt you in the endI never claimed to be a saintOoh, my own was banished long agoIt took the death of hope to let you goSo break yourself against my stonesAnd spit your pity in my soulYou never needed any helpYou sold me out to save yourselfAnd I won't listen to your shameYou ran away, you're all the sameAngels lie to keep controlOoh, my love was punished long agoIf you still care don't ever let me know
I love Ani. This is one reason why:"Untouchable Face"think i'm going for a walk nowi feel a little unsteadyi don't want nobody to follow me'cept maybe youi could make you happy you knowif you weren't alreadyi could do a lot of thingsand i dotell you the truth i preferthe worst of youtoo bad you had to have a better halfshe's not really my typebut i think you two are foreverand i hate to say it butyou're perfect togetherso F$@% youand your untouchable faceand F$@% youfor existing in the first placeand who am ithat i should be vying for your touchand who am ii bet you can't even tell me that muchtwo-thirty in the morningand my gas tank will be empty soonneon sign on the horizonrubbing elbows with the moona safe haven of sleeplesswhere the deep fryer's always onradio is counting downthe top 20 country songsand out on the porch the fly strip iswaving like a flag in the windy'know, i don't look forwardto seeing you again soonyou'll look like a photograph of yourselftaken from far far awayand i won't know what to doand i won't know what to sayexcept F$@% you...i see you and i'm so perplexedwhat was i thinkingwhat will i think of nextwhere can i hidein the back room there's a lampthat hangs over the pool tableand when the fan is on it swingsgently side to sidethere's a changing constellationof balls as we are playingi see orion and say nothingthe only thing i can think of sayingis F$@% you...
It is a lifetime ago. It is yesterday.I am a woman. I am a child. I am trying to be coy and flirtatious. My heart is hammering in my chest so hard that my hands are trembling with the reverberation. You are smiling and I think that I know what the writers mean when they say someone is sloe eyed. I can smell you. It is not the cologne on your skin or the beer on your breath. It is something underneath everything and I am wondering how I can discern it. I am wondering why this secret sense of mine has never played forth before."You are the smartest hot girl I've ever met." I know the words are only half a compliment and I want to be affronted or at least **** my eyebrow to show some pretense of displeasure - but I can feel my skin burn with pleasure and I turn away and look for the safety of my boyfriend before you take too much note.I did not touch you. My mind held you and I could not remember why I did not recall the feel of your skin. I am a tactile girl. Later - the first time - I knew for a fact I hadn't touched you then. I would never have forgotten if I had. Your hand burning my flesh without heat. An invisible imprint.It was not a lifetime ago. it was not yesterday. It is forever.
Talk to me J-Bird. Tell me what's on your mind. Tell me what your thinking. But I do.I tell you all the time. Every single second that we share space I tell you everything that matters. Sometimes there are volumes spoken in silence. Learn to listen before you open your lips.
I want to stop writing.I stopped... for a time. But it didn't stick. It didn't last.I want to stop writing.I can't do it anymore. Little cuts. Nicks in the surface of who I am. I let me bleed out every single time. How many times can I rip my heart out and lay it exposed at your feet before the day comes that I simply can't get it back in? What if I were to walk around like this all the time? Broken, bruised, gasping for air in a vacuum that I created?I want to stop writing.I want to stop writing.I want to stop breathing. I want to stop the itch but it's INSIDE my skin. And no matter which way I wear my clothes I can't stop tearing at them. I can't stop the words from pouring out of my fingertips. They always find a way.I want to stop writing.But the words will out. Seeping out of my pores. The phrases running through my head and whispering "tell me, tell me, tell me..."How can I deny them? How can I bottle them back up? How can I stop this burning?I want to stop writing. But I won't let me.
I read this to Rob on our wedding day...It is truer today than it was then.Each day.. it absorbs me more. One day i will be the words and the words only. A sweet echo - low in timbre - a memory he holds until we breathe in sync again.Here it is.. it's by Gloria Fuertes.when I hear your name When I hear your name I feel a little robbed of it; it seems unbelievable that half a dozen letters could say so much. My compulsion is to blast down every wall with your name, I'd paint it on all the houses, there wouldn't be a well I hadn't leaned into to shout your name there, nor a stone mountain where I hadn't uttered those six separate letters that are echoed back. My compulsion is to teach the birds to sing it, to teach the fish to drink it, to teach men that there is nothing like the madness of repeating your name. My compulsion is to forgot altogether the other 22 letters, all the numbers, the books I've read, the poems I've written. To say hello with your name. To beg bread with your name. 'She always says the same thing,' they'd say when they saw me, and I'd be so proud, so happy, so self-contained. And I'll go to the other world with your name on my tongue, and all their questions I'll answer with your name -- the judges and saints will understand nothing -- God will sentence me to repeating it endlessly and forever.
My parents had one of those giant 'show' bibles when I was little. It was a huge, daunting tome with a white leather cover and gold leafing. My parents were somewhat permissive and I was allowed to hold the heirloom bible and 'read' through it at my leisure. I remember rubbing the corners of the pages and marveling at how slim the paper was. Contorting myself so I could hold one page up and peer through it to the window and how it amazed me that I could see the yellow blob of the sun straight through with almost no challenge. And later.. when I started to be taught what that book meant and what it was about.. I remember thinking that the onion skin was stronger than it looked to bear the weight of those words. I imagined that had someone written the stories of creation and destruction, of trials and survival and of unspeakable anger and unfathomable love on lesser paper it would have disintegrated in shame.But mostly I remember the pictures. I remember the conflicting feelings of terror and awe I felt from flipping to the heavier pages. The thick, shiny ones where the paintings of angels with flaming swords and Mary ascending like Venus were portrayed. And Jesus. A picture of The Christ - with a glowing pierced heart his hands open and held up in forgiveness, his eyes heavenward. It was - in some ways a frightening picture - the stigmata was clear on his palms. But for some reason I loved him best. I was known to lay my cheek against that smooth page and fall asleep next to the fair haired man that my father told me probably did not really look like the real Christ.Sometimes I am lost. Sometimes I feel untethered and awash in uncertaintly and fear. I feel doubts and castigate myself for those doubts. The bible is gone now. Heirlooms are not meant to withstand hours of grape jelly fingers and years of constant page turning, stroking and manipulation. I've looked for a new one - but trying to decide which bible is best is not the same as having it just be there.I long for the days of holding a magic book and having all worries assuaged by the picture of that man with kind eyes. But I don't suppose it works for grown ups..
I think that I am a thief. I have moved through life snatching up shards of other people's personalities. Fictional people and real people.A little bit of Jo March and some Meg - but not so much Amy or Beth. A fragment of Angela Chase with a smidgeon of Rayanne for good measure. Skip the Sharon Cherski. Katy from first grade over here and a piece of Alex from Mrs. Brophy's class right there. Like some alien lifeform, I sew these shiny bits over me like a coat of armor. Hiding the void beneath. My talent is mirroring the right things back. Knowing which part of a person they want to see reflected in someone else Recognizing their own self loathing and turning so the light never hits that piece in their presense.And underneath there is no *I*. Only emply air. A question and a bit of glue.