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07:05pm 03/11/2003
mood: contemplative
Estoy a tus pies. Si me tienes, puedes tenerme. Pero mi corazon no puede tomar este ninguna mas.

Ya te digo, "Estoy enamorado con tu...y me duele muchisimo." Tengo nunca mas por decir--excepto que, en el fin, que nos sentieron fue la verdad real detras de todo el confusion.

I am at your feet. If you want me, you can have me. But my heart can't take this anymore.

I already said, "I am in love with you...and it hurts so much." I have nothing more to tell you...except that, in the end, what we felt was the real truth behind all the confusion.
curiosity killed the cat
01:11pm 25/08/2003
  This is my cigarette
but you won't let me
smoke it
This is my throat but
you won't let me choke

This was my heart its
too bad you
broke it
curiosity killed the cat
10:04am 25/08/2003
  I sank deeply into thoughts of betrayl and realized that you were the one betraying me all along, with your actions, not thoughts.  
curiosity killed the cat
Ah the simple truth unwithheald   
09:42am 25/08/2003
mood: awake
I'm scared.

Don't hate me if I leave you.

Don't hate me if I stay.

Don't hate me if I question this. Its only my nature.

And the ground snak into my feet. And the day's sky dissapeared. I love you, I'll love you, I loved you like this.
curiosity killed the cat
07:41am 20/05/2003
  The sound of her rapping was engulfed by the muted soap-opera drama of 11B, the New York City traffic, and the subtle softness of the woodwork outside his door. No answer. As she lifted her hand to try the doorknob, she was surprised to find a two-centimeter space between the doorframe and the door. It stood ajar. Gently, she pushed the creaky white door open and peaked inside.
“Will? You there?” She waited, then stepped into the living room.
“Will?” she called, a little louder.
“You left the door open.” She uttered, disappointed.
She made her way to his kitchen finding it, too, was empty—as were the bedrooms and dining room. She walked back into the kitchen, reached into the cupboard, and plucked a glass from its immaculately organized shelves. As she tipped the water glass under the faucet, allowing the city’s cool but chlorinated water to fill the cup, she reflected on their differences. She wondered how they could last so long, so harmoniously, being so unalike. Her apartment was uncommonly messy; her clothes lie strewn about the furniture, everywhere but in her bureau drawers. Scraps of paper, poetry, newspaper clippings, sticky notes covered all flat surfaces—including the walls. And the cabinets were ever in a chaotic state of disarray. She scanned the kitchen, wondering what it was caused him to focus on such irrelevant things. He spent his childhood in a trailer, after all.
The glass overflowed.

As she turned the cold water off, she noticed a half-full bottle of orange vodka left open on the counter. The cap lay next to it, as well as a glass, empty, save for the last remnants of melting ice cubes.
Shit,” she said, quickly setting down the water. She jogged from the kitchen to the bedroom, checked again.
“Shit, shit” she said, “Will? Where are you.”
Walking into the hallway, she thought of all the places he could be—the park, Paisley Café, Anthony’s place. Then she stopped, gazing at the closed bathroom door. The bathroom door was never left closed, unless someone was in it.
Knocking frantically, “Will? Will, are you in there?”
She tried the doorknob. It was locked.
“Will? Sweetie?”
She pressed her ear to the door, no sound. No water running, no heavy breathing, no moans.
“Sweetie, I know you are in there. Open the door.”
Silence. “Please?”
She clasped the sides of her skull, moaning the word “shit” as though it were her mantra, a desperate prayer, as though the combination of her shaky voice, tone, and their syllables would offer some miraculous form of clarity. Justine awoke from her panic with the striking thought that, as she understood, the only means by which she could know clarity was to have the word etched into her skin.
“Will!” she yelled, a heightened state of hysteria. “Will, are you okay? Oh god, say something!” She heard something drop, something plastic. It clattered on the bathroom floor, then rolled and stopped, as though halted by something.
“Will?” She dropped to her knees, palms pressed flat against the cold hardwood, and placed her head on the floor, trying urgently to glimpse into the tiny box of a room through the crack under the door. There were simply shadows, the glare of the sunlight, and an orange-brown medicine bottle, which had rolled across the tiny, hexagonal black and white tiles so typical of older apartments in New York.

She lifted her head, staring down at her hands. They were wet with water. She placed her head on the floor again, and looked focused on the shadowy figure to her left. She couldn’t make it out. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a heap of fabric, cloth. Sopping wet cloth. Will.
“Will! Will, you have to listen to me. Its Justine, Will. You need to open this door. I don’t know what you chased with that vodka, but you need to open the door.”
Still, silence.
She frantically got up, almost slipping. She silently prayed he hadn’t passed out. Fist clenched, Justine pounded on the door as hard as she could, then jiggled the door knob once again, knowing fully it would not give. She stopped, suddenly. She leaned her back against the door as though she could no longer hold herself up, and slowly slid down to the floor, where she sat, arms wrapped around her legs.
“Don’t do this to me. Oh god, don’t do this to me,” she said to him, to herself, to no one in particular, as she tasted the salt-watery flavor of her own tears upon her lips. She breathed in. She waited.
Shakily, she spoke. “If you won’t open the door, then at least talk to me.”
The silence pierced through her more agonizingly than any spoken word could.
“Just talk to me, honey. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong…” she paused.
Still, silence.
She leaned her cheek against the door, pressing her palm against it. “Tell me what you took. Or at least let me know you’re alive.” She forced a nervous laugh, “Remember how we agreed that I had to die first. Remember, honey, how we agreed that I wouldn’t be able to handle you dying. Please, Will,” she chocked, “I love you.”

On the other side of the door, however, Will had also pressed his palm against the door. Slowly, he lifted his hand to the lock, and twisted it, letting his heavy limb drop where it pleased. He didn’t care where or how, or in what way the fingers twisted over his pitiful palm.

Justine was taken aback by the sound of the lock clicking. She closed her eyes, opened them, and rose from the ground. She opened the door to find Will as she had imagined, slumped over in a sopping, shaking heap behind the door.

Will looked up at her, standing there, in the light, in front of him. She was beautiful. He closed his eyes. He began to cry. He didn’t deserve her.

Justine sat down next to him, taking his bent hand into hers. She moved the wet, matted pieces of hair from his forehead, and stared into his pained face.

“I did a bad thing,” he spoke, eyes still closed, barely audible.
“You can tell me,” she said.
He turned his face away from the sound of her voice.
She squeezed his hand, “You can tell me.”

So he told her. He told her of Denise three weeks ago, at Anthony’s apartment. He told her how it hadn’t been first time, how it had been the second time, and how, after the first, he had sworn it would never happen again. He told her how Anthony offered them E. He told her how they took it, how Anthony had fallen asleep and how he and Denise had stumbled into the bedroom stupidly, eyes dilated, not seeing clearly. Denise, he thought, disgusted. Or was it Dana? He didn’t care. He hated her, whoever she was.
No, he resolved, not her. He hated himself.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I fucked up, he told her. I fucked up the only good thing in my life. I fucked up the only good thing I’ve ever had in my life. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Justine calmly stared at him. Knowing Will, she knew better than to be surprised. She almost expected to be hurt, eventually. That is what happens, after all. That is the nature of pain. A child might be beaten by his mother, he might watch her grow older in an increasingly degenerating state of mental health. He might move in with his father, into a trailer, as the divorce went through, as she rehabilitated from existence on the 7th floor psychiatric ward. He might have been poor, ridiculed. He might have lashed out violently, beating any baggy-jeaned, red-bandanna wearing punk kid who dared to cross his path. This is the nature—a nature, thought Justine, that probably began with a single human being, thousands of years ago, who dismembered man’s inherent harmony with a single act of malice. A man who perpetuated pain onto his children like alcoholism. Like a genetic flaw, one man’s pain flows down his heart like black sludge, like sewage oozing, bubbling, seething outside his body, down with gravity, onto the floor, flowing with disease, pathogens, with parasites—parasites which inevitably infect those in its immediate path, the gutter where the innocents, the pure, those who were unfortunate enough to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time, stood, knee deep. And this sludge seeps into the skin of his wife and child, staining it black, putrid, staining it the color of pain. And the ooze crawled up Will’s legs, torsos, into his internal organs: bladder, intestines, liver, kidney, heart. The sludge oozed into his heart where the parasites lodged themselves into its walls, blackening, saturating it until flowing into the blood stream, where the ooze made its way to his head, flowing behind, into, over his eyes, coating them like molasses. And the liquid blackness finally oozed into his mind, through each crevice, cavity, fold, nerve ending, paralyzing all. And it was this sludge, this parasite that made a victim of him, a host to anguish. And it was this sludge that caused him to unintentionally infect others, as the case with any disease.
Staring at the beads of sweat on his pale forehead, Justine knew it was simply a matter of how well they could pull through. She dug the fingers of her right hand into the coarse space between the tiles, and the fingers of her left into his clammy hand.

He was convinced she would leave him, that she should leave him, yet, still, out of that frothy daze, he pulled himself out; he lifted his eyelids; he opened his eyes.

She was still there.
curiosity killed the cat
10:35am 12/05/2003
  Can't you not believe I see I am I go you take and live, oh live

said death.
curiosity killed the cat
10:33am 12/05/2003
mood: naughty
Give me your breadth.
curiosity killed the cat
4 works in progress: 3 poems, 1 human being   
07:57pm 01/05/2003
mood: deadly
I don’t believe hearts do break, he said stiffly.
I believe they sink so deep into your chest that
they drown.

suffocating insides dying slowly of lovesickness,
love I’m sick with you, no cure

I feel like the Director has deliberately pushed us
miserable actors to the thousandth take, death scene,
which has become more and more like the script, the
pain all the more real. Us, the same, repetition,
sadistic, three two one and

curiosity killed the cat
Works in progress   
04:23pm 22/04/2003
mood: accomplished
St. Petersburg The stifling heat seemed to radiate from off the dingy concrete, the city, upside-down had churned over, into the ground, the earth beneath, now above, where he sat alone amidst the sooth spiraling of mud, where the shape of the land swirled, he, in the center, body dangling by an arm hanging on to a curve of the earth, a single hand grasping, palms sweating, he was slipping above an inhale, beyond an exhale, the point of rest between. He, hanging, while the city beneath him choked on its peeling, yellowed wallpaper where 2nd story flats the size of liquor bottles crumbled to the touch like stale linen, the weaving so loose he found himself tumbling into the tiny gaping squares, the strings of in-between, where threading, stretched and curved, was no longer straight enough to cross, no longer close enough to touch even itself. Burdened no longer Naked, for the first time, her thighs no longer packaged in the wrapping paper of thick calico, the cotton of cloth. Her hair, loose, no longer tied up with the ribbon of her childhood. Her outstretched legs, foot, the heel digging into the crumbling earth, where the brown dirt thrived, felt more alive compared to any hard wood floor of her father’s house. The scratching of needles, and broken sticks, of underbrush against her spine was softer, more yielding than any cushion, or couch, or bed in that place. Against her ear, a pillow of chirping crickets no longer muted by its painted, peeling walls, where crooked black and white photographs of crooked black and white men hung, suspended in time. Those eyes, vacant, the gaze of her forefathers ever following her about the room, the desk where she scratched out obligatory sentences, habitual greetings ever in a gray haze of sameness with little to distinguish one day from the next, one week from the last, or her life from their past. There, amongst the spruce, the tall grass and the cool, crumbling earth she lay beyond the reach of those eyes, the vacant gaze of her forefathers. There, naked for the first time, she waited for him, for the solitary moment of now to take her. A moment that, though crude and fleeting, was solely her own. Slipping You, too much like water, were slipping through my fingers, clenched as I rushed to thrust my hands into your miserable tin pail already half eaten with rust, scooping you into the palm of my hand over hand, a makeshift cup brought to my desperate mouth, dry. Air that stung at lips that can’t help but suck, parched, the cracked crust of my cheeks, where layers of skin were flaking, floating down an exhale. I, not even noticing that, in my haste, you, drop by drop, had fallen to the ground. Man and woe, man His fingernails, painted, sparkled of purple polish his hand, small, grasping her hand, small, masculine, square, her fingernails gnawed on, were uneven, bare—except for his pretty fingers, comfortably entwined there. Scapegoat Bah, bah black sheep have you any will? Objects in the mirror You stare ahead, gripping the wheel no one speaks you only shout accelerating to the anger in your tone as I shut my eyes, shut my ears, and shut my mouth in the snug “safety belt” meekly, placidly I witness the collision the blue flecks of your iris meeting the black exhaust of an auto-mobile noxious words screeching brakes come to a halt for the sake of a single, yellow sign that reads, “DEAD END” whiplash but I absorb every shock and recover in no seconds flat because, as it so happens, objects in the mirror aren’t any closer than they appear Café sweet basil Intrigue in the form of a breathless, sweaty man making love— to his saxophone Black-eyed Susan Before you were married you once told her that black and blue were your favorite colors— and perhaps, that is why she, so often, wears them for you now. Loving me You say, “It hurts.” but I thought you liked the pain “I love you” I spit it out, with the bitter taste of that bar of soap you shoved into my mouth, and scream at me to wash it out but all the words I spoke still hang in the air, like the bubbles, suds got in my eyes and I’m not sorry for saying it Dirty Reaching past the plastic curtain, she found that frigid handle labeled “hot” and turned it until the handle broke her small feet, one by one, found their way to the pristine ceramic floor where she collapsed in a heap, feeling the cloth cling to her, heavy, as to drag her down to the ground—a place suitable enough for even her, where she could place herself in that single, unnoticeable blemish in the tub wherein the fragile layer of white ceramic had worn away to reveal the blackened soot that lie beneath There, she melted into the dirtiness that couldn’t be washed away, not with all the hot water in the world Upon leaving you November, a dramatic scene, your muted lips moving, I hanging there where the words have already drowned, already faded into a background of windows rattling against metal panes, yet here, now our foreign film seems to lack a screen, seems to lack the little white captions that tell us just what to say. Bus station and I am chocking in a salt-watery sea of my own tears, here, now, in front of you, and, still, the engine of the Greyhound bus is humming, exhaust waiting to release us in one fierce, explosive sigh goodbye. Words unspoken I write on your back, the skin invisible words, your jagged spine whose edges have flirted with cement roads where cracked blacktop has risen and fallen and crumbled into menacing pieces of gravel that scrape and weave their way under your skin. May I, I feel that, when you come inside my body, won’t you fill my thighs, hips, heart, with the your pain, blue, genuine. My finger, it leaks invisible ink. May I, I write that, on your back, the skin, invisible words where, there, your eyes may never stray. Red lipstick In the folds of wrinkles, of neatly ironed age spots I wonder, Mable, in your ashen hair which has now a metallic consistency, copper wired, how much red lipstick you have lost within the crevices of your indefinable mouth, faded into translucent skin how many grandchildren, Mable, your aged eyes not seeing the crimson on your teeth, but not on that upper lefthandcorner of your lip, Mable, how many adult children didn’t have the heart to tell you. Sweating bleach Hand gripping cotton, starched, I held you by the collar of your shirt, fresh, stained white in our backwards world. Death Death gambled with life under a shady, 100 watt bulb, cheated her all the while, death a beast untamed, he came in the form of ice storms, fierce Vermont highways that spit out human beings like venom and claim them like prey, where ghosts of mangled vehicles, metal frames extending menacing and jagged limbs, arms, rigid hands for a greeting, only to pull his hand away, death. Indian-giving death stole her breath away, and never gave it back. Tall enough to reach you Bitter bites of you, floor scraping pieces packaged in little cardboard boxes, isles slanted and isles of you, stacked, a checkerboard floor, gray and brown, gray and brown, with little specks of white like those t-shirts men wear, heather-gray—53 year old men with hard, pregnant stomachs such that the alcohol advertisements on the front stretch, distorted. I hadn’t noticed the tile before, the way each twelve by twelve inch square never quite met, creating a hairline void of emptiness whose cracks will inevitably fill with mud, spilt juice, and ketchup. These cracks, too, are brown. Grays and browns; a stain fades easily into these colors, grays and browns. Why are the floors of supermarkets always gray and brown, the same colorless, supermarkets. Supermarkets, I've discovered, that aren't so super, after all. I am here, in my modern-day uniform of blue jeans and simple, white shirts. I am boxed in new packaging, but I am the same product, stale. And isles lean in on me, slanted, like a surrealistic painting. The edges of the shelves jagged, the racks threatening. The scene—the floors, shelves, shoppers—fade, all fade, into that indefinable point on the horizon. An artist might call this the vanishing point. I walk towards, want that place. I, too, hoping to fade into the smallness there, yet find that it remains the same distance away, always the same distance away despite my hurried steps. I, now, on the edge of a jagged metal shelf, wanting boxes of you, there, high, the top shelf—I, on my toes, not tall enough to reach you. NYC tempo I am a pillar to your pillar, crumbled, fallen to the ocean above us, watching the New York City sidewalks with the perspective of below, a windowpain, and glass. And at night I go streetlamp-gazing, my sky a sea of shoes, sizes—six, eleven, seven, lines straight and skewed dance across insteps swaggering, worn down, smooth, passing me by. Insanity Hitler and Churchill playing chess in a weathered, canvas tent settling a dispute by means of Kings and Queens laughing over the sheer absurdity of it Bin laden and Bush playing war in the ruins of London resolving a mis-construction by means of animate Men too deafened by the echo of artillery to listen Death of a doll Her cold, hard body sits In a box, in a closet a stiff figure, dressed to the nines Eerily beautiful, her voluptuous body flawless skin tiny waist large breasts lush, red lips the epitome of male fantasy in the hands of a six year old. Two generations of plastic beauty two generations of anorexia, bulimia self-loathing materialism perfectionism superficiality two generations of illusions. Steroid Abuser Ken, meet Pregnant Teen Barbie, and her little sister, Eating Disorder Kelly Forever Today, Bobby Jo professed her love for Micheal Jay in the bare, bathroom stall with permanent, red marker that bled, “Forever” Yesterday, Bobby Jo professed her love for George Tyler in the bare, bleached-white walls of the bathroom stall And yesterday, Bobby Jo discovered that permanent, red marker isn’t so permanent after all Not so crazy girl She rocks herself because there is no one there to do it for her She hates herself because the anger has to go somewhere She holds herself because if she were to let go, she might just fall apart Fast-forward his life There is Jack in the box— the idiot box, that is. Fast-forward, rewind changing the channel when he should be changing his mind Dirty Reaching past the plastic curtain, she found that frigid handle labeled “hot” and turned it until the handle broke Her small feet, one at a time, found their way to the pristine ceramic floor where she collapsed in a heap, feeling the cloth cling to her, heavy, as to drag her down to the ground— a place suitable enough for even her, where she could place herself in that single, unnoticeable blemish in the tub where the fragile layer of white ceramic had worn away to reveal the blackened soot that lay beneath There, she melted into the dirtiness that couldn’t be washed away, not with all the hot water in the world Vile-lece Fury often sounds like a thousand emotional words unsaid, the rage a gag stuffed into your throat, leaving you to choke on your apologies, and swallow your pride, where the silence seeps into your stomach, now a cauldron seething with sentiments, emotions, fists unbound Seeing red She stared at the ruby red neon sign that read no vacancy until the piercing siren of the digital clock ceased to bother her. It faded into the background, along with the subtle ringing in her ears and the loud whispering of his voice Funny how she never seemed to notice just how stained the sheets were when he was wrapped about them. Laugh so hard Your laughter often sounds painful, loud, howling as you bend over to hold your sore shaking belly as though it might fall out, and pausing only to gasp for breath—but from behind glassy eyes you’re miserable I know. You know. Yor tears of joy confuse me. Not nice to point This social pollution is passed down like alcoholism, hearty excuses lie in blaming our fathers. Which means, of course, we are all but victims of the generation before us, like our father’s father pointing the finger at his forefathers before him. But its funny how the reflection in that liquor bottle is yours, and no one else’s Miss you I miss the looks you gave me when I was half dressed. I miss the soft cooing of your voice, the way a tone resonated from off your chest. I miss that sound, how the rest of the world would just fade into the background. I miss the roughness of your chin, softness of your skin, the way you’d pout when I denied a kiss, as though it were the saddest thing that had ever been. I miss your piercings, the metal on your tongue, lip, nipple, and various other places. I miss the smell of you in traces, always the combination of smoke and testosterone. I miss your love of purple hair, emotions bare, I miss your love of me. I miss the way your hand looked upon mine, square, your fingernails painted, sparkled, entwined. “I wanted to feel pretty” you’d say, and I had to laugh. You know, I miss that. Fairy tale ending There was nothing more to say. She wanted independence, he wanted white picket fences. Their words were a battlefield, and neither could break past the other’s defenses. They were sinking in the mud of their own trenches. There was nothing more to do after the shouting, or the shooting, or that final “goodbye.” No, there was nothing more to say, except, perhaps, that fairy tales lie. The best advice Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself. Or so my father told me, over and over again, the best advice he ever gave me was there, as a child, on that stained, filthy, and faded, flower-printed couch with my wet oval mouth being pushed against its cushioned arm, his hand clenching my hand tightly, holding me down, moving my rigid joints against their will. In the torn fabric, the orange foam beneath, I saw my life, a never-ending conveyor belt of worn couches and stop hitting yourself—s. Curse-ive Tearing out the first few pages, wanting to start over again but finding she is unable, the torn edges of paper that once was—halting her every sentence such that she wrote with the awkward and unsteady hand of a third-grader, cursive, dreaded and difficult for the undeveloped limbs of a child, the misunderstood impossibility of tan paper, and two solid, all-defining lines that could not be crossed. Writing the same constant consonant over and over again, the enormously gawkish letters that must remain below the bottom-half of the blue dotted line—but her “l” was never quite tall enough, her curves a little too jagged, and sometimes the lead of her pencil crumbled beneath the pressure, her grip slipping, curve dipping too far, where all perfection of the letter “e” was lost, being sucked into the gray void below that solid, bottom line all because the metal surrounding her eraser was chewed, none being brought to the surface even in vain effort she evoked only the taste of lead, of repressed shudders, the scraping of metal against teeth. Dangerous game My chest is not a dart board. Her warmth Angel dust is anything but heaven-sent. His chestnut hair, the sweat of his forehead clinging to it, matted down, her hand gently brushing it aside. He, his head in her lap, unaware of just where he was. Knowing only that the warmth, it was good, in the simplistic manner of a child, the way he could categorize existence itself in two words, good and bad, encompassing every person, deed, emotion like bad trailer trash, bad dealers, bad powder that looked like flour, not nearly as harmless, bad that he knew, bad coffee with bad salt thinking it was sugar, bad daddy, bad putting out cigarettes on his arm, the burns, bad cuts, bad that she was good to him, bad to him, bad saying he’d quit, bad that he lied, bad okay work, bad installing floors, his wrists, bad razors, bad thoughts, bad taste, bad bad him. Good her. She, good, her lap warm. Let us build a fort Permit the polyester filling, the cotton to declare us sanctuary, a fort, let us build a fort out of our naked bodies, skin. We, a cocoon of blankets, spoon-like, our bodies of twisted silverware, entangled limbs weaving arms, legs, fingers. And allow the moist, hot breath coming from my wet mouth, oval, to weld your chest into mine, together melting until, at length, basking in our saltysweet sweat is a single creature, lovely. Sitting in a room I string together my sentences with the thinness of thread, and I can’t afford to have you hanging off every word that I’ve said. I am sitting in a room where the walls never quite touch the ceiling, on a throne of white ceramic—my seat, plastic, on the edge of a gaping hole that won’t allow me to fall in. I am a spool unraveling amidst a symphony of clicking heels and toilet-flushing. I am ripping at the seams. I am sitting in a room where the walls never quite touch the floor, an uneven expanse of one-inch white tile, the black lines of in-between where bending shadows of other women stop, to glance politely underneath. Perhaps, to find an empty pair of dainty heels disturbingly similar to their own. I am sitting in a room where the walls never quite touch the floor, my feet tucked neatly above the metal-door horizon. Redeyes Speaking spoke of Emerson with a ghost-story mentality, his monster, tall, gangly, with red eyes, piercing, like those of a photograph. He, the monster, stood scratching before the closet door, ever where the boychild hid. Though a frequent, all too familiar tale, Emerson, each time, caught us offguard with that battery-operated flashlight fear of his. Monster consumes boy in a fit of bloodlust, followed by an unfamiliar, Emerson fumbling for the doorknob. I found him there, on the carpeted step. “I had to get out of there,” he said, “Everyone was suffocating me, pushing me against the wall—everyone but you.” I, feeling sorry for the creature, whispered, “Your eyes are blue, not red.” Bathroom’s coffin door Rusty hinges were too strong for them. The door was not locked, but being pushed against from both sides. She on the outside, back sliding down the intricate pattern of cracked and splintered woodwork that seemed to fade into the background of her cracked and splintered fists. Pounding, unwavering, at the door that was not locked but being pushed against from both sides. He, on the inside, knees ironed smoothly against his chest was rocking himself to the lullaby of her soft pleas—each time he closed his eyes he saw a never-ending horizon of cheap linoleum floors. Each time he closed his eyes, he opened his mouth to speak. In the soft, wet oval of his mouth the words abandoned him. She stayed, humming “Open up and let me in.” Humming until her voice was spent and sore, and gone with the violent jiggling of the doorknob that was not locked, but being pushed against from both sides. Both palms pressed against both sides of the door where both of them imagined the other was doing the same. She, on the outside, her head resting against the door where she could almost hear his heart beat. Wingless fairy She, a glass figurine, the glass glittery white frosted pink dressed green blue wingtipped fairy, stands rather proudly upon pretty doilies of dirty socks, striped, solid, unmatched colors whose white bottoms all are brown stain crusted with similar dinginess, she reminded me of you, you said. Yet when my angry arm swept heavily upon the dresser surface, she did not fly, but fell hard against the cruel carpeted floor where her wings snapped against the rigid, gravity-corroded ground, and the weight of her own body, and when I took her fragile shape into my hands felt, feeling the gaping hole in her back, ugly she is just a normal girl now, I thought, at that moment feeling closer than I have ever felt before to an inanimate object. As you push my face away Your face is the taste of bitter and sweetness, of freckled velvet skin, sugary, swirling tenderly against the jagged hairs there, salty, the captivating stubble scruff roughness of your chin. Start a revolution You teethe on my breasts as though they would offer you some nourishment, won’t you suckle my words instead, won’t you climb the high schoolyard fence at 11 PM to join me in the bus garage, the dirt, in the graffiti-like art of spraypainting yellow paint-peeled buses if only to start a revolution of happiness. And in the chilly, moist morning air a disgruntled bus driver will kick the side of his bus. And the blue paint will drip in droplets of mirth down the rigid, chilly metal framework of the schoolbus, drip drop stretching down, deeper, far into the minds of schoolchildren. Magazine regrets And images of naked beer blonde big-breasted women with long legs and overly accentuated blue eyes are swift seeping into my soured mouth every time he kisses me, now. Shrinking violet When you tore the pacifier from my mouth, filled the red wet openness with liquid coffee, when adulthood was pressed upon my body like a flower in a book, whose pages leached that ferociously flourishing vibrancy into black ink, the monotony of printed word. I being pretty when you placed me there, yet in such fierce forgetful abandonment I shriveled, and faded, and when you ripped my security blanket from about the seams of my shoulders arms, waist, bed, world, and neatly folded him, and laid him in a coffin, I fell from my page, I lost my place. Made of straw I walked in on you in a most peculiar position, you bent over yourself sitting on the moist dirt floor of the basement, combing your shiny red skin with the bristles of a hairbrush, harsh, plastic, brittle, why didn’t you knock, you asked, grip sweeping shakily down the left limb of your forearm I did, I replied. I didn’t hear anything, you muttered. Well, I, shocked, stupidly speaking, whispered, your house, walls, doorframe, they are made of straw. Paper heart I can’t seem to cut through to you, not if I were scissors you said. Your heart is made of rock paper, I said, and paper beats rock. But scissors sever paper like nothing, you said.
1 dead cat| curiosity killed the cat
01:48pm 22/04/2003
mood: good
This is a test. Of life.
curiosity killed the cat