you left me with a choice: sandpaper, or an icepick.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Monday, 29 March 2010
These slings they slung, they've tangled me up,
and I'm strung up, high, and hung;
I'm floating, tied to azure skies,
Peering down from up above.
and I've gone searching for your mirrors
in the tattoos of your name,
in candid nights of silent joy,
in the closets of our sacred shame.
As the moon draws us closer yet,
As the night sky eats the sun,
and the lights come out of hiding,
and our bodies join, as we come as one.
Morning draws us shadows and we fall,
frozen hands cracking on frozen floors,
as our lovers come to take us home,
led astray through alien doors.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
"You remember those days?"
I nodded. It was an era ago, maybe seventeen years, but that didn't matter. We had been together that summer, him and I. There were others. They didn't matter.
He hugged the glass with his fingers, kissed the whiskey with his lips, and wept like a child lost.
"Yeah, those were the days."
He might not have heard my words over his hollow, racking shudders, but he didn't need to hear them. Seventeen years, and we had carried on. As if nothing had happened. As if no one suffered for it. Seventeen years, and the silence killed us while we laughed, and danced, and drank, and lied, and cheated, and played as if nothing had happened. Why weren't we afraid of what we had done?
"Enough." He wiped his tears away, and downed another shot of whiskey as he stood up to go. He looked me in the eye, and crumbled through the doorway, as the wind swept him into his car. The horns announced his departure when the tree stood firm in his way. I stood there shivering, in the cold without a friend.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
The truth, my darling, is that you never loved me. The truth, my little angel, is that you were too caught up in your own skin to hear the words pouring out of my ears. The truth, my love, is that you wanted the truth for yourself.
And now you have it.
The truth is, my dear, that I do not love you. I never did. I refuse to. The truth is that we will never know the truth in its entirety. The truth, my life my heart, is that we fell out of love the moment we rolled out of bed that first morning we spent together at your house, when your parents were away, and all I knew how to cook was scrambled eggs. The truth, my filthy little sexpot, is that the filth of our mouths only shows shades of the filth that lies content in our hearts. The truth, my raunchy ravishing princess, is that when I move inside you, I feel you move throughout me. The truth, my innocent child, is that I am so lost in you, that I wouldn't be able to see an exit through the webs we've spun ourselves inside each other, even if it were clearly marked with red neon signs, and they gave us little pathlights to let us know we're getting closer, that we're standing at the edge of salvation, and all we need is one. tiny. nigh-insignificant. little. shove.
The truth, my dear, is that the salt of our tears has kept us afloat all this time, and I for one am tired of flailing my arms in this puddle we're so adamant is an ocean.
The truth, goddamnit, is that I hate myself for loving you. The truth is that I cannot stop loving you. And I won't stop loving you. So I might as well leave for a while.
I left your ribbon tied to the front door. You need it more than I.
He decided to stay in his place, and spend the rest of the day skipping stones across the shimmering surface of the empty lake.
She screens the smoke through elegant lashes and tracks the line with her eyes, before tracking it with her nose. She remains still through the rush. There's static on the radio, and the curtains are stained with spilled wine and nicotine. She feels moist, but her face is foam, unfeeling, unfettered. She doesn't know this face, but it licks her ear, and strings attach to hooks buried deep in her navel. Her hand reaches down to grab a hold of life, as his reaches in for warmth. Blood rushes up and rushes down, and she feels bare in between, spread so thin. The tongue is now in her mouth. On her tongue. It is her tongue. It is their tongue. There is no tongue; just empty space, that feels like a tongue. There is no feeling; just an empty tongue-like space. In the dark, her eyes swallow the sound of the sun, and spit joy unto the shadows of yesterday.
She sidles down, still holding on to him. I was born to be a glove, she giggles to herself, and if the glove fits... Well. It could fit a few different dozens, so she'd try them all to find the right one. But that can come later, she thinks to herself. We come now.
Hours pass as he continues to fill her. She watches him disappear, she watches the truth dying in her eyes. She comes, and morning enters her bed, and heavy footsteps ring in the corridor. He stops in the frame, and asks how her night went.
She honestly says she cannot remember, but she doesn't want to forget.