I have been away for such a long time & yet still here. Held tight by the same old problems. How are you all?
Freedom is close, so close I can take it in my arms.
"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
-Max Ehrmann, Desiderata
& you sit just on the edges of my dreams. My subconscious says that you want to kiss me but when I find you my mouth is full of broken glass.
I can feel your hip against mine in the darkness, just for that one night.
new year's day spent all tangled up
hello, hello & a quiet goodbye.
your hands on my skin,
your smell in my clothing,
but still you won't come back to me.
all my lovers are actors. the summer bedsheets stick to my skin, stopping my breath and holding me static.
& again the world is full of the sounds that people make when they leave. packed bags, final nights, kisses against my hair & hands held tight in my lap whilst people ask 'so what is really going on with you?'
& i can't answer because i don't know.
I run through the streets barefoot & calling your name.
& it's raining. It has been for days. The streets shine golden in the evening sun, the world takes ragged breaths & still I cannot find you.
My limbs are heavy like my heart.
Have some words I wrote before that I never meant. I don't mean it, any of it, because I don't know. It's all heart break, & not over boys that don't love me. Heart break over forever-type things, parents, people who see my face but don't know it anymore even though they should. Even though they held my child hands, and took me for ice cream every weekend when my mother wanted an afternoon to herself.
“I think I’m dead” she says. It is somewhere near 2am & the smoke sits quiet in the air around them. She leans forward, her hand against his as she takes the cigarette. Inhale, exhale, her eyes never leaving his face. It is several minutes before she speaks again.
“There are lies. Lies. Inside my head and I can’t get out.”
He raises an eyebrow but remains silent. She drops her gaze, as if embarrassed, runs a finger around the edge of her glass, takes another drag from the cigarette. He doesn’t quite know what to do; one wrong move & she will scatter away into the night.
He takes her hand, under the guise of reclaiming his cigarette, hoping that the touch will let her know everything he can’t quite bring himself to say.
& he wants to tell the world just how beautiful she is but it’s really not his style.
Lies, all of it. Lies.
I have been to so many things that have ended with the words 'forever'. So many people wanting to cling to a summer, a fortnight, an afternoon for the rest of their lives.
& where are they?
where the fuck are they?
They're gone. Forever means nothing, really. Not once you've washed the smoke from your clothes and painted over the chips in your nail polish. I am not sad about all the summers that have long since faded from my skin. Not really. Because they were there.
so, this. 23 & drinking neat vodka from a glass i took from a bar nearly a lifetime ago.
today will run into tomorrow, and into next week. there is a maze of them stretching right out into the sky like the runaway tail of a childhood kite & each one is only fractionally different from all the others.
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
Marty McConnell; Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell