Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
For the ladies (put your hands up)
I never knew either of you when it counted. In real life I mean. I had my little circle which seemed much bigger then, filled with Forever Friends and the like.
I met the girl with the golden hair first. "Met" is a subjective term, it was either very late or very early and we were talking across the ocean. I was crying as the messages pinged back and fourth; shoving my computer away from myself over and over again, only to crawl across the unmade bed to retrieve it moments later. Through my tears I felt a kernel of resentment that this girl was nice. She was kinder then she needed to be with me, and it was obvious that she cared. Damn it. Why couldn't she be heartless and cold so I could hate her in peace. I promised to do my due diligence and fade away, and so I tried. I wasn't perfect that spring, but then none of us were.
The first time I saw he in real life I spotted the purple jacket across the frozen lawn. Arm and arm with him and laughing I think. I looked away, crossed the brick walk, went to my room and sobbed. That spring I grew accustomed to seeing them together, and I learned that it didn't hurt as much as I thought it should. I was still terrified of her, with her wide smile and her pretty blue eyes. When we worked in the office together I would go red (a habit I somehow picked up in high school that I wish to god I could un-learn) and leave as quickly as decorum allowed. She was nice to me as ever, and it became clear that this wasn't he same kind of "nice" that those forever friends had acted. She actually meant it.
When I left that place forever I thought that would be the end of it. Months passed, and somehow we kept pinging messages back and forth over hundreds of miles. Over time we talked about everything; soon the last bit of mistrust faded and I let myself understand that this girl was somehow the only truly Genuine girl I had met in a long while. She saw me at my absolute lowest, and I don't think she holds that against me. That is a true forever friend.
The second girl with the raven hair I met just days before I left. She was talking and laughing with the boy that I finally let myself fall for. Hugging me she made me promise that we would be friends the next year "when I came back." I made the promise lightly, knowing that I would not be back. That is how I remember her, laughing in the sunlight in over-sized glasses.
I trusted her easily, which is why I started going to her with all the wrongs of my life. I had no one else at home, and certainly no one at school, that I had any degree of trust in. She made me laugh from a hundred miles away; she reminded me I was beautiful and smart when I desperately needed to hear it. I listened to her too, and as lies and truths and heartaches showed themselves in the light we held on to each other.
We talked about paper cards and fishing and computers and rings; when she called me I could hear the bustling of city streets through the phone and could almost taste the spinach salad she was describing. One night I called her sobbing and she listened to me until I cried myself out. She told me I was worth it, and for some reason when she said it I believed her. That meant the world to me that night, sitting in my car alone at the park.
They changed my life. They are smart and kind and sexy and fun, and I wouldn't trade either of them for the world. They are true friends. So here's to those two wonderful ladies who keep me sane. Thanks.
I met the girl with the golden hair first. "Met" is a subjective term, it was either very late or very early and we were talking across the ocean. I was crying as the messages pinged back and fourth; shoving my computer away from myself over and over again, only to crawl across the unmade bed to retrieve it moments later. Through my tears I felt a kernel of resentment that this girl was nice. She was kinder then she needed to be with me, and it was obvious that she cared. Damn it. Why couldn't she be heartless and cold so I could hate her in peace. I promised to do my due diligence and fade away, and so I tried. I wasn't perfect that spring, but then none of us were.
The first time I saw he in real life I spotted the purple jacket across the frozen lawn. Arm and arm with him and laughing I think. I looked away, crossed the brick walk, went to my room and sobbed. That spring I grew accustomed to seeing them together, and I learned that it didn't hurt as much as I thought it should. I was still terrified of her, with her wide smile and her pretty blue eyes. When we worked in the office together I would go red (a habit I somehow picked up in high school that I wish to god I could un-learn) and leave as quickly as decorum allowed. She was nice to me as ever, and it became clear that this wasn't he same kind of "nice" that those forever friends had acted. She actually meant it.
When I left that place forever I thought that would be the end of it. Months passed, and somehow we kept pinging messages back and forth over hundreds of miles. Over time we talked about everything; soon the last bit of mistrust faded and I let myself understand that this girl was somehow the only truly Genuine girl I had met in a long while. She saw me at my absolute lowest, and I don't think she holds that against me. That is a true forever friend.
The second girl with the raven hair I met just days before I left. She was talking and laughing with the boy that I finally let myself fall for. Hugging me she made me promise that we would be friends the next year "when I came back." I made the promise lightly, knowing that I would not be back. That is how I remember her, laughing in the sunlight in over-sized glasses.
I trusted her easily, which is why I started going to her with all the wrongs of my life. I had no one else at home, and certainly no one at school, that I had any degree of trust in. She made me laugh from a hundred miles away; she reminded me I was beautiful and smart when I desperately needed to hear it. I listened to her too, and as lies and truths and heartaches showed themselves in the light we held on to each other.
We talked about paper cards and fishing and computers and rings; when she called me I could hear the bustling of city streets through the phone and could almost taste the spinach salad she was describing. One night I called her sobbing and she listened to me until I cried myself out. She told me I was worth it, and for some reason when she said it I believed her. That meant the world to me that night, sitting in my car alone at the park.
They changed my life. They are smart and kind and sexy and fun, and I wouldn't trade either of them for the world. They are true friends. So here's to those two wonderful ladies who keep me sane. Thanks.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Ashes and Wine
In the waning hours between when the young folk go to bed and the business world wakes up to their espresso in fancy paper cups, I am waiting. A knock at your front door and you answer, berobed and befuddled at the intrusion that is either too late or too early. In the days since we last met I have gained weight; ten pounds in all the right places. Despite this you could still fit both hands around my waist if you wanted to, and as your eyes sweep me I know that some part of you does want to.
You stand aside, and neither beckon me in nor turn me away. I slouch into the hall, stepping over the rolls of skin that passes for your old basset. Kneeling I pass my hand in front of his nose, after a few seconds of pondering he gives a quiet garumph of recognition. Slipping him a beef offering from my coat pocket, I can hear your slippered toe beating a muffled tattoo on the hardwood.
"He's on a diet you know."
"Poor thing, months left on this earth and he can't even eat what he pleases."
"It's four o'clock in the fucking morning."
"It is."
Pausing we study each other. You have kept your hair short out of habit; I can see the bits around your temples fading to white. I wonder if you see the lines around my eyes. It's too late now for miracle cures and skin tightening cream; I'm stuck with the ghosts of my years of laughter and tears.
Outside the garbage truck is cling-clanging it's way down the street; in a few minutes it will reach the lone industrial sized dumpster at the end. In mornings past the resulting cacophony served as my natural alarm clock. Today the sound shakes you out of your silence.
"You staying in town?"
"I don't know yet."
"Need a place to crash?"
"No, not today."
You nod slowly, relaxing now that you know this is not a conjugal visit.
"Well, come on then. There's a space heater in the living room I can turn on." The old house has high tin ceilings and planked floors scored with decades of dragging furniture. You spin the dial on a white heater, the only thing in the room that doesn't have a comfortable layer of dust. I drag a saggy armchair up to it so that I can rest my toes on the warm plastic; you lean against the blocked off fireplace and continue to stare at me.
"So, it's been a while."
"Sixteen months."
"I thought you might be back for the funeral."
"Didn't think you wanted me here." You shrug, then turn to stare at the mantel. A woman stares out of a picture there, a laughing woman. I remember taking that picture.
It was the first time she convinced me to stay the night, telling me that I was far beyond driving home. I slept on the old couch in this room-there was no heater then, and I was shivering. You came downstairs to get a drink after she fell asleep and saw me shaking. When you took me in your arms it was just as it had always been, for a while we forgot that you were married and I had found the right one with a ring to prove it.
After that she invited me around once every couple of months. Soon a decade passed; she was the maid of honor at my wedding and the shoulder I cried on during the divorce and still you and I would find each other wrapped together on the same old couch. I don't know if she knew, if she did she never said anything.
When you called me a year and a half ago from the hospital I flew out. She had already lost her hair in the treatment, but her smile was still there and she still offered me the couch to sleep on. That night I slept alone. Two months after that she was put in the ground surrounded by a lot of people who said touching things and left appropriately expensive flowers. I had work or family or some other good reason I couldn't attend, and when I called the next week I got ring after ring after ring. You never saw the point in answering machines.
You are still looking at the picture, and for the first time I see the five years of age between us. You look old.
"I finally got my carry permit." Dragging your eyes away from the laughing eyes you watch me pull glossy metal from my jacket pocket."
"You scared that you're going to get in trouble between your car and my front door?"
"You never know."
"Give it here."
I pass it over and watch you expertly heft it, some of the light going back into your eyes as you slide back the chamber.
"Nine millimeter?"
"Mmmm."
"If you're going to be around for a couple days I'll take you to the range, could be fun."
"I'm leaving today."
"Suit yourself."
"Carl?" You look up, I rarely use your given name.
"Yes?"
"Did you ever love me?" You take a deep pull of dusty air, the light flying out of your eyes as you hand back the gun.
"We've been over this. You know that I wanted to try things again, but then you met Evan and I found her and..."
"That's not what I asked. But I guess I know anyway. I just came to say goodbye mostly."
"You're not coming into town anymore?"
"I am. Just don't think you will be seeing me."
"You don't want to...?"
I stand and go to the mantel, brushing past you and fingering the frame.
"She was beautiful you know. And kind. You should have loved her. You shouldn't have- we shouldn't have, well. I wish you had loved me. It wouldn't have been so horrible if you had."
I am still holding the gun, I flex my fingers around it and look up into your beautiful dead eyes.
"You ruined me Carl, for everyone else. I have wanted to hurt you for so long." I press the metal into your chest, you wrap your arms around me and hold me there. We are stuck in some obscene version of a hug; listening to the sounds of the street coming to life drifting in from outside. In the hall the old dog whimpers, complaining that he hasn't had his quarter cup of diet feed for the morning. Finally I break away, pushing with the gun until we are at arms length again.
"Goodbye Carl." You look curiously from me to the gun in my hand, almost expectantly. I hesitate for a second, then turn on me heel and walk out of the room.
In the hall the pile of skin and bones hasn't moved, but the dog lifts his head to look at me mournfully through watery old eyes. The loud crack reverberates through the house followed by the dull thud of his head hitting the floor for the last time.
I leave the house as an equal. Now we both have nothing.
You stand aside, and neither beckon me in nor turn me away. I slouch into the hall, stepping over the rolls of skin that passes for your old basset. Kneeling I pass my hand in front of his nose, after a few seconds of pondering he gives a quiet garumph of recognition. Slipping him a beef offering from my coat pocket, I can hear your slippered toe beating a muffled tattoo on the hardwood.
"He's on a diet you know."
"Poor thing, months left on this earth and he can't even eat what he pleases."
"It's four o'clock in the fucking morning."
"It is."
Pausing we study each other. You have kept your hair short out of habit; I can see the bits around your temples fading to white. I wonder if you see the lines around my eyes. It's too late now for miracle cures and skin tightening cream; I'm stuck with the ghosts of my years of laughter and tears.
Outside the garbage truck is cling-clanging it's way down the street; in a few minutes it will reach the lone industrial sized dumpster at the end. In mornings past the resulting cacophony served as my natural alarm clock. Today the sound shakes you out of your silence.
"You staying in town?"
"I don't know yet."
"Need a place to crash?"
"No, not today."
You nod slowly, relaxing now that you know this is not a conjugal visit.
"Well, come on then. There's a space heater in the living room I can turn on." The old house has high tin ceilings and planked floors scored with decades of dragging furniture. You spin the dial on a white heater, the only thing in the room that doesn't have a comfortable layer of dust. I drag a saggy armchair up to it so that I can rest my toes on the warm plastic; you lean against the blocked off fireplace and continue to stare at me.
"So, it's been a while."
"Sixteen months."
"I thought you might be back for the funeral."
"Didn't think you wanted me here." You shrug, then turn to stare at the mantel. A woman stares out of a picture there, a laughing woman. I remember taking that picture.
It was the first time she convinced me to stay the night, telling me that I was far beyond driving home. I slept on the old couch in this room-there was no heater then, and I was shivering. You came downstairs to get a drink after she fell asleep and saw me shaking. When you took me in your arms it was just as it had always been, for a while we forgot that you were married and I had found the right one with a ring to prove it.
After that she invited me around once every couple of months. Soon a decade passed; she was the maid of honor at my wedding and the shoulder I cried on during the divorce and still you and I would find each other wrapped together on the same old couch. I don't know if she knew, if she did she never said anything.
When you called me a year and a half ago from the hospital I flew out. She had already lost her hair in the treatment, but her smile was still there and she still offered me the couch to sleep on. That night I slept alone. Two months after that she was put in the ground surrounded by a lot of people who said touching things and left appropriately expensive flowers. I had work or family or some other good reason I couldn't attend, and when I called the next week I got ring after ring after ring. You never saw the point in answering machines.
You are still looking at the picture, and for the first time I see the five years of age between us. You look old.
"I finally got my carry permit." Dragging your eyes away from the laughing eyes you watch me pull glossy metal from my jacket pocket."
"You scared that you're going to get in trouble between your car and my front door?"
"You never know."
"Give it here."
I pass it over and watch you expertly heft it, some of the light going back into your eyes as you slide back the chamber.
"Nine millimeter?"
"Mmmm."
"If you're going to be around for a couple days I'll take you to the range, could be fun."
"I'm leaving today."
"Suit yourself."
"Carl?" You look up, I rarely use your given name.
"Yes?"
"Did you ever love me?" You take a deep pull of dusty air, the light flying out of your eyes as you hand back the gun.
"We've been over this. You know that I wanted to try things again, but then you met Evan and I found her and..."
"That's not what I asked. But I guess I know anyway. I just came to say goodbye mostly."
"You're not coming into town anymore?"
"I am. Just don't think you will be seeing me."
"You don't want to...?"
I stand and go to the mantel, brushing past you and fingering the frame.
"She was beautiful you know. And kind. You should have loved her. You shouldn't have- we shouldn't have, well. I wish you had loved me. It wouldn't have been so horrible if you had."
I am still holding the gun, I flex my fingers around it and look up into your beautiful dead eyes.
"You ruined me Carl, for everyone else. I have wanted to hurt you for so long." I press the metal into your chest, you wrap your arms around me and hold me there. We are stuck in some obscene version of a hug; listening to the sounds of the street coming to life drifting in from outside. In the hall the old dog whimpers, complaining that he hasn't had his quarter cup of diet feed for the morning. Finally I break away, pushing with the gun until we are at arms length again.
"Goodbye Carl." You look curiously from me to the gun in my hand, almost expectantly. I hesitate for a second, then turn on me heel and walk out of the room.
In the hall the pile of skin and bones hasn't moved, but the dog lifts his head to look at me mournfully through watery old eyes. The loud crack reverberates through the house followed by the dull thud of his head hitting the floor for the last time.
I leave the house as an equal. Now we both have nothing.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Mistress cellophane
You didn't notice me when I walked in the room. That's ok, I'm used to it. Sit down on the bed, open my computer, try to find solace in the virtual world. You make it look oh so easy.
Remember tonight, man-boys buying me drink after drink, me insisting that I am Taken for good. After all that, you're feet and worlds away from me here.
My stomach turns, the sick is coming-I can feel it.
Somehow, tonight I just want to be loved. Turn and toss-toss and turn. Tonight I feel restless, tonight I feel wild. Sitting there, your eyes on the screen, I could toss myself out the window and you wouldn't bother to blink. So maybe tonight I shall do just that.
"Want anything?" Not a murmur or mumble in response. The kitchen is cold, I shift my weight in a ridiculous dance while I wait for the microwave to buzz it's tired finale. Hot soup burning the taste off my tongue. You don't glance up at my return. I balance the soup on top of the weeks of junk on your table, standing sentinel beside your chair. You look up, annoyed at my apparent interest. Your expression doesn't change as the cold serrated metal slips between your ribs. Your last moments on earth will be spent wishing you could just level your alchemy already.
I turn, ignoring the spluttering as YOU taught me to. If you're lucky, I will notice you in an hour.
If you're lucky.
Remember tonight, man-boys buying me drink after drink, me insisting that I am Taken for good. After all that, you're feet and worlds away from me here.
My stomach turns, the sick is coming-I can feel it.
Somehow, tonight I just want to be loved. Turn and toss-toss and turn. Tonight I feel restless, tonight I feel wild. Sitting there, your eyes on the screen, I could toss myself out the window and you wouldn't bother to blink. So maybe tonight I shall do just that.
"Want anything?" Not a murmur or mumble in response. The kitchen is cold, I shift my weight in a ridiculous dance while I wait for the microwave to buzz it's tired finale. Hot soup burning the taste off my tongue. You don't glance up at my return. I balance the soup on top of the weeks of junk on your table, standing sentinel beside your chair. You look up, annoyed at my apparent interest. Your expression doesn't change as the cold serrated metal slips between your ribs. Your last moments on earth will be spent wishing you could just level your alchemy already.
I turn, ignoring the spluttering as YOU taught me to. If you're lucky, I will notice you in an hour.
If you're lucky.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Something you won't read.
You have four moles on your cheek that look like a constellation who's name I always forget.
I will remember this.
You're just tall enough that I have to stand on tip toe when I kiss your cheek. I think too that I will remember the way you smell after you step of the shower, soft and a little musty. I hope I don't remember how I feel tonight.
The game is on the flat screened tv behind me; every so often I turn to look at it. Not because I'm actually following the action, just because it seems the right thing to do. I stare across the table, looking through the girl who is busy ticking off great aunts and second cousins on her fingers. Instead of listening I count; hockey pictures on the wall: four, cigarette butts in her ashtray: six, people at this table:five, people that I know: zero. I'm comfortable in anonymity. Being a friend of a friend of a friend suits me just fine, for now.
It's not until the talk turns to common ground that I start to flinch. I know the stories by heart. I know the way the ache rises in the back of my throat and how to push it down again. Tonight is different. Tonight they are laughing.
"-walking in the room and pulling off the blanket...priceless expressions...begged us not to say anything but of course we were gonna give him shit."
She waves her cigarette in a lewd expression, trailing tongues of smoke. Pinching myself under the table, I look away.
Before I can remember not to think about it I remember another bitterly cold night. We are in the front seat of your car and I am leaning towards you, trying to avoid the old soda that has leaked through it's paper into the cup holder. You are asking me what I would do if you told me you love me. I am panicking in such a wonderful way. My heart is pounding it into my chest over and over again;
He loves me
BA BOOM.
He loves me
BA BOOM.
To me, that night seemed so real. Now I try to pinch myself out of it before I remember the next part; The way I skipped through the double doors and up the stairs to my bed where I fell asleep, hugging my pillow and still listening to the tattoo of my heart.
A pause in the conversation-everyone looks at me expectantly. Non-committal noises from the back of my throat and they are off again, this time comparing notes on mutually acquainted low-lives.
I imagine their conversation a year from now. I can see them nodding as they talk about your new fling, joking among themselves about this crazy girl who seemed to believe that she was worth a change of your heart. This crazy girl who believed it was worth risking everything. This crazy girl who no one has heard for in months. This crazy girl. But quickly the talk will turn again, and I will be a side-note in your history. Maybe someday you will tell another curly headed girl how you once were silly enough to imagine a future with me; before quickly assuring her that she is nothing like me at all.
Tonight I sit here and think and remember and try to pretend I'm not wilting inside. I drag the smoke into my lungs gratefully, relishing the scratch in the back of my throat. You're somewhere miles away, not worrying about any of this. I try to bed my mind to think of nothing.
Your eyes have little flecks of gold in them that spark when you're feeling particularly devilish.
I will remember this.
I will remember this.
You're just tall enough that I have to stand on tip toe when I kiss your cheek. I think too that I will remember the way you smell after you step of the shower, soft and a little musty. I hope I don't remember how I feel tonight.
The game is on the flat screened tv behind me; every so often I turn to look at it. Not because I'm actually following the action, just because it seems the right thing to do. I stare across the table, looking through the girl who is busy ticking off great aunts and second cousins on her fingers. Instead of listening I count; hockey pictures on the wall: four, cigarette butts in her ashtray: six, people at this table:five, people that I know: zero. I'm comfortable in anonymity. Being a friend of a friend of a friend suits me just fine, for now.
It's not until the talk turns to common ground that I start to flinch. I know the stories by heart. I know the way the ache rises in the back of my throat and how to push it down again. Tonight is different. Tonight they are laughing.
"-walking in the room and pulling off the blanket...priceless expressions...begged us not to say anything but of course we were gonna give him shit."
She waves her cigarette in a lewd expression, trailing tongues of smoke. Pinching myself under the table, I look away.
Before I can remember not to think about it I remember another bitterly cold night. We are in the front seat of your car and I am leaning towards you, trying to avoid the old soda that has leaked through it's paper into the cup holder. You are asking me what I would do if you told me you love me. I am panicking in such a wonderful way. My heart is pounding it into my chest over and over again;
He loves me
BA BOOM.
He loves me
BA BOOM.
To me, that night seemed so real. Now I try to pinch myself out of it before I remember the next part; The way I skipped through the double doors and up the stairs to my bed where I fell asleep, hugging my pillow and still listening to the tattoo of my heart.
A pause in the conversation-everyone looks at me expectantly. Non-committal noises from the back of my throat and they are off again, this time comparing notes on mutually acquainted low-lives.
I imagine their conversation a year from now. I can see them nodding as they talk about your new fling, joking among themselves about this crazy girl who seemed to believe that she was worth a change of your heart. This crazy girl who believed it was worth risking everything. This crazy girl who no one has heard for in months. This crazy girl. But quickly the talk will turn again, and I will be a side-note in your history. Maybe someday you will tell another curly headed girl how you once were silly enough to imagine a future with me; before quickly assuring her that she is nothing like me at all.
Tonight I sit here and think and remember and try to pretend I'm not wilting inside. I drag the smoke into my lungs gratefully, relishing the scratch in the back of my throat. You're somewhere miles away, not worrying about any of this. I try to bed my mind to think of nothing.
Your eyes have little flecks of gold in them that spark when you're feeling particularly devilish.
I will remember this.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The fairgrounds.
In the steel gray moonlight your hair spikes up the wrong way in the front, casting a shadow over your eyes. The wind is heaving and sighing every so often, chilling our bones. I pull your canvas jacket a little closer around my shoulders, centuries of patriarchy have at least given me this privilege. Together we slip through the gate and crunch slowly across the frozen gravel.Across the midway a barn springs up out of nowhere, the wind carries the stale smell of last summers livestock to us from it's open doors. Your hand in mine is strong and reassuring and I clutch at it. My timidity is nothing but a coy mask. Alone I would skip over to play in the looming shadows, with you I shrink into a giggling mess that jumps at the sound of the stars.
"The grandstand?"
"Oh yes! But don't let go ok?"
My boots breaks the ice that has just begun to form over the muddy divits and furrows. There is nothing quiet so satisfying as snapping something brittle and newly formed. I make a point to step on every icy web, grinning at my own childish fun. You stand by indulgently, jabbing your hands into your pockets and clapping your boots against each other. I almost feel bad for taking your jacket. Almost.
When the last crunch has echoed across the grounds I finally let you take my hand again and we turn towards the Everest of steel and aluminum before us. The top row is somewhere above us, hundreds maybe thousands of steps up. Clunk! One step. Clunk! Two steps. Clunk, clunk, thunk clunk. Twenty six steps until the top of my boot doesn't hit another metal tread. Up here there are no seats, just a wide isle backed with chain link fence. We are at the top of the world and only the moon and the stars can see us. You lean in to kiss me, and when you close your eyes I keep mine open, watching your lashes flutter in the ebb and flow of the embrace. You are so fresh, and so wonderful and so new. I watch as you let the kiss die slowly on my lips, and then just before you open your eyes I push.
Clunk
Clunk
Clunk
Snap.
Friday, September 3, 2010
128
Tonight I will not write the crisp plot floating around the back of my head. Tonight I can't do crisp. Tonight is all fuzzy and blurred lines. Somehow want came into the equation long ago and things changed. What I should want, how I should want, who I should want. Want ruins things.
Tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that will all be cut out of a cookie cutter pattern. I don't have excitement, I haven't earned it or I can't handle it anymore. Better to go slowly crazy as the days drip by then create a cacophonous crash of a mess. I miss mess now, life is too clean and too expectable. I will never be happy here in this life, but I will never be that painfully unhappy either. I will spend days floating in this in between. I'm not the girl I once was, passionate and brazen and headstrong. I feel like false advertisement on those few occasions my emotions get stirred. My wings have been clipped.
One thing, at least, is true. I am sold to the first person who tells me they want me. Going, going, gone.
Tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that will all be cut out of a cookie cutter pattern. I don't have excitement, I haven't earned it or I can't handle it anymore. Better to go slowly crazy as the days drip by then create a cacophonous crash of a mess. I miss mess now, life is too clean and too expectable. I will never be happy here in this life, but I will never be that painfully unhappy either. I will spend days floating in this in between. I'm not the girl I once was, passionate and brazen and headstrong. I feel like false advertisement on those few occasions my emotions get stirred. My wings have been clipped.
One thing, at least, is true. I am sold to the first person who tells me they want me. Going, going, gone.
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