Category: Prose

as i hang from my own wrist, strangled and mangled and bruised, it all suddenly makes sense. so many nights alone and i just hoped i’d die trying to find my way home. there is no home anymore.

underneath your fingers, boy, a place i’ve never felt while you babble-on-and-on because you’re passionate about some things and i find myself wishing i could passionate about what i want to be passionate about instead of making myself care about stupid little things, globalization leads to democratization and i’m feeling frustration by the lack of verification for you as a human being and underneath your fingers, boy, a place i’ve never felt i wonder if perhaps you might feel like home. you never could, you never would, and the fact is elucidated when i realize that i’d only want you to be closer to her, she who is home just like i wanted him to be closer to her, she who is home and underneath your fingers, boy a place i’ve never felt. i’ve never felt you and i won’t anytime soon. but maybe, today, i felt myself underneath your fingers.

i bite my lip, hard, when i think of you until its gushing blood and i couldn’t speak because that would require opening my mouth and then i’d drown in all of the oozing redness even if i knew the words to utter or say (i love you) i couldn’t.

i found a quiet space to write a letter to you and all i could think about is all of the empy quiet space you’re trapped in and how i thought of this as rescuing you, i’m sorry.

its you and i alone on a flat surface sitting talking about the greyness watching the blue-blue sky mix with the brown-grey-green grass as the spring sun turns to a spring sunset; i’m a little sad. none of this seems to matter, which is why i haven’t cried yet, and i can’t quite cry over around you. i guess i’ll get over it (again). i guess it’ll be just fine (again). i like you outside the context of other people. you and i are neither you nor i. we are just alone.

breathless, you wrote words to me and though you never said it i caught it so clearly: happy mother fucking birthday. all in one breath, just like that, because you couldn’t spare two last night. i realized that i don’t even think you remembered it would be my birthday soon. but do you remember how we spent it wandering around lawrence where we’d both be together only a year point five later and where we hid from my mother in dressing room stalls and i remember the first time you called. when i heard your voice. for the first time. or do you remember your prom? and how we didn’t go and we didn’t notice. how i kind of liked prom night when it was with you. do you remember any of that? or do i have to remind you. maybe you could tell me why i only remember all the dirty things i’ve done (even if they were three poems and 2 years ago) and i forget what was beautiful. you

sometimes i drive by semi-trucks on the highway and remember that you’re not on this earth anymore; today was one of those days. i wish wish wish i could write about you and how beautiful you were just because you were here or if i could understand how glamourized you’ve became in my mind and understand why that’s such a good thing. i wish i could dream about you again and maybe this time tell you that i love you or at least that i’d cry if you weren’t alive. sometimes its just so beautiful here and i’m sad that you’re not here to see it; today was one of those days. lacey told me yeah, but its always beautiful where she is now. i guess i have to agree and hope that we’re right. i wish i could explain the world or how i feel but i can’t. sometimes i see that trophy and i have to smile; today was one of those days. that one was for you,

the silence is really just a ringing sound in my ear that i used to use your voice to drown. i use you to drown me. and i miss you a lot this week. i don’t know, why? maybe because i found your cd and figure you want your cd cos you told me i couldn’t keep it. phone call. silence. phone call. silence. phone call. message: i might keep it because you kept too much of me. and i love you in that sick twisted way that sometimes gets confused with a four letter word spelled l-o-v-e. i mean i f-u-c-k you. i guess you’ve got liquor and i’ve got you i’m sorry.

i only feel about this tall, and i’m sorry if that means that you can’t see me. perhaps, i feel that no one has ever seen me. there was this one girl, this one time, who knew me and even she couldn’t see that. so i feel about this tall, and i’m sorry i write so small. i just have a small voice and these words bring me down. i hope i make you eat these words i hope you swallow and you choke.

i find you in the form of a little machine pressed against my mother’s ear in the kitchen. mom: cordial. me: assume its someone else. but when i hear the voice on the other end i know exactly who it is but do not yet realize the urgency of this message. i told you weeks ago, i feel like i can’t say anything to you because i don’t want to hurt you. and i meant: i hate knowing that i hurt you; i hate knowing that i still hurt you; i hate knowing that i exist. in a rush of words i tell you about everything that’s happened back when you and i == us. and you tell me everything too. suddenly, i understand that i couldn’t let you assume. that you could know me completely and yet not know me at all because you didn’t know the misery and the pain that i felt. why can’t we be normal and have a break up where blame can be placed to set the scales of balance? i think it over, twisting and turning the phrase around in my mouth and i suddenly realize the truth i suddenly believe in truth and i know that we’re not normal. i wouldn’t want that. but we’re getting somewhere. and maybe someday i’ll make it all up to you. between the two of us we’ve got to be abel to come up with someone who believes in maybe someday.