My father almost killed a man today.
He tells me that he drinks to forget. He tells me that his bloated red face, sagging potbelly, labored breathing are a result of too many past tragedies needing to be forgotten.
Maybe if he put the bottle down sometime he could remember present blessings.
My mother screamed at me today.
With tears streaming down her face she slammed the dishes she was washing, wavering on her two unsteady feet, glaring at me with bloodshot, glazed eyes.
She says she’s fucked up but never does anything about it.
I had a panic attack today.
I found the darkest, most confined corner of the house, tremors i
He wakes up too early to go to a job no longer his calling. He has had no calling for a long time, actually, for the kids ungrateful and rebels obnoxious stifled his motivation years ago.
His socks match his pants, but he wears sandals. His students fool around during squid dissection, but he still fries breaded calamari at lunch and invites them to try it.
Six hours a day he recites biology tidbits from textbooks he considers inadequate for his caliber of instruction. Despite his frustrations and his Master’s degree, his existence has stuck to the same square room and same thirty-two desks for over a decade like blackened gum on t
It’s 9:30 AM on a snow-bright morning and he’s whistling loudly. He treads through slush, meets us college kids at the bus stop, and speaks with alcohol-stale breath.
“G’mornin’, young ladies!” He sounds like country and warm summer farms.
We smile and nod, let him ramble because no one likes a drunkard. No one likes the obnoxious honesty, the rancid vulnerability. Keep the sadness at home, sir, for you must be a sad, sad man to be drinking so early. Or, if you don’t have overdue bills and four nicotine-stained walls, finish your beer at your usual street corner.
Don’t speak to him.
Ign
During the time that rotted, ice formed as crystals in her tears. They were slow and habitual, just as the moon's rising was for every dark, winter night.
Her mind dragged her body down into the pool of weakness, and work and play became chores and beatings upon her heavy heart and sore limbs. She found limits in her mortality (and cursed the amount of blood that came with each cut); clawed at them with bloodied fingers. She spun circles around her vices and insecurities (fickleness, weakness, hopelessness), only to define herself with them rather than conquer them, and found nothing to make the sleepless nights worthy.
Time was torture and
she slips real hard, he says by heart-terrors, literature
Literature
she slips real hard, he says
He strides into the emergency room and she's in those hospital clothes and she's crying and it takes all his fucking strength not to run. She can hardly breathe, he holds her so close, places his hands on her face, dries her cheeks with the palm of his hand. She is too numb to stop the tears, dismiss the pain and her lips are split open, her breath haggard.
"Baby," he whines plaintively, big amber eyes searching hers for signs of life (hardly finds anything).
"How are you?" It takes all her strength to speak because her head is pounding and she can hardly live, hardly live right now.
"Terrified," he breathes, fingers entwined hard with
She falls in love with the orange glow of his cigarette in the blue night. His right hand finds hers as they fly through a sea of red and white lights, the car filled with his smoke. Their destination this night is his past that intrigues her, is the place that he finally escaped, and she's a little nervous.
Late to every destination they fumble with the room keys in the cold dark, only bother unpacking toothbrushes, lingerie, and lube. They make love in sparsely furnished motels, throw familiar clothes into unfamiliar closets, obsess over each other's bodies into sweaty sunrises and empty orgasms.
When they take walks hand in hand their
Children covet their wounds. Band-aids, they implore as they cradle scabs and bruises, tears engorged like dew at the corners of their eyes. They ask you for the remedy, for the kisses to make it feel better. They don't know how to fix it themselves.
So, like a child I think of how the fucker drowned me in alcohol for a night that, once excitement and a girl with a lovely name, will fade as the night he took it from a girl who never even kissed anyone before him (too easy, he would say). The chokehold of the taste of Bacardi lips, the two days of bleeding afterwards beckons childlike whimpers and tearful sobs late into lonely nights (and I
I cling to his hand (sometimes with a few fingers, sometimes with both hands) as we browse vegetables and fish in the supermarket, for I am hopelessly attached to his gentle touch. People have always said that my fingers are long and my hands are big for a girl (proving their point by aligning their palms and digits with mine. I usually feel like a giant when this happens). But in his hands they are small, feminine, soft, my thumbs dwarfed, slender.
And I am hopelessly out of control when we cook dinner together, when he looks deep into my eyes as he touches me, kisses me, and oh, God, when he listens, laughs (God, to hear his laugh). In th
It takes sleep deprivation and anxiety to kick her back into gear. Like a rusted old plow she creaks along the sunken path, is dragged along by the grayed horse that is sheer will. It is spring but the crops are dead; though the sun is shining the fruit bared is pathetically thin.
The path the blinded horse trudges is unknown. Two trails follow her feet as it pulls her along and hard rain fills them in; forms mud, conceals her past progress. Underneath her dirt-matted hair she fears that each step is worth less than the one before.
(Because, fuck, she hasn't been a college student in a long time, and her family is too poor, and she'd rat
Her heart is much too large and feeling to be trapped in such small, metal ribs. It has blood, emotions, delicacy, but it is too constricted by the mechanical processes she is conditioned to perform. The robot girl is governed by rules so concrete that her heart swells against its cage.
The first rule is to be beautiful. She's been taught that boys don't want to hear the sounds her lips shape; they only want the feel of those lips on their skin (but they'd only want the hands and the mouth if she were beautiful). She's been told that her emotions are frightening, but her ass and her thighs make up for it.
In her experience being called "w
My father almost killed a man today.
He tells me that he drinks to forget. He tells me that his bloated red face, sagging potbelly, labored breathing are a result of too many past tragedies needing to be forgotten.
Maybe if he put the bottle down sometime he could remember present blessings.
My mother screamed at me today.
With tears streaming down her face she slammed the dishes she was washing, wavering on her two unsteady feet, glaring at me with bloodshot, glazed eyes.
She says she’s fucked up but never does anything about it.
I had a panic attack today.
I found the darkest, most confined corner of the house, tremors i
He wakes up too early to go to a job no longer his calling. He has had no calling for a long time, actually, for the kids ungrateful and rebels obnoxious stifled his motivation years ago.
His socks match his pants, but he wears sandals. His students fool around during squid dissection, but he still fries breaded calamari at lunch and invites them to try it.
Six hours a day he recites biology tidbits from textbooks he considers inadequate for his caliber of instruction. Despite his frustrations and his Master’s degree, his existence has stuck to the same square room and same thirty-two desks for over a decade like blackened gum on t
she slips real hard, he says by heart-terrors, literature
Literature
she slips real hard, he says
He strides into the emergency room and she's in those hospital clothes and she's crying and it takes all his fucking strength not to run. She can hardly breathe, he holds her so close, places his hands on her face, dries her cheeks with the palm of his hand. She is too numb to stop the tears, dismiss the pain and her lips are split open, her breath haggard.
"Baby," he whines plaintively, big amber eyes searching hers for signs of life (hardly finds anything).
"How are you?" It takes all her strength to speak because her head is pounding and she can hardly live, hardly live right now.
"Terrified," he breathes, fingers entwined hard with
She falls in love with the orange glow of his cigarette in the blue night. His right hand finds hers as they fly through a sea of red and white lights, the car filled with his smoke. Their destination this night is his past that intrigues her, is the place that he finally escaped, and she's a little nervous.
Late to every destination they fumble with the room keys in the cold dark, only bother unpacking toothbrushes, lingerie, and lube. They make love in sparsely furnished motels, throw familiar clothes into unfamiliar closets, obsess over each other's bodies into sweaty sunrises and empty orgasms.
When they take walks hand in hand their
Children covet their wounds. Band-aids, they implore as they cradle scabs and bruises, tears engorged like dew at the corners of their eyes. They ask you for the remedy, for the kisses to make it feel better. They don't know how to fix it themselves.
So, like a child I think of how the fucker drowned me in alcohol for a night that, once excitement and a girl with a lovely name, will fade as the night he took it from a girl who never even kissed anyone before him (too easy, he would say). The chokehold of the taste of Bacardi lips, the two days of bleeding afterwards beckons childlike whimpers and tearful sobs late into lonely nights (and I
Her heart is much too large and feeling to be trapped in such small, metal ribs. It has blood, emotions, delicacy, but it is too constricted by the mechanical processes she is conditioned to perform. The robot girl is governed by rules so concrete that her heart swells against its cage.
The first rule is to be beautiful. She's been taught that boys don't want to hear the sounds her lips shape; they only want the feel of those lips on their skin (but they'd only want the hands and the mouth if she were beautiful). She's been told that her emotions are frightening, but her ass and her thighs make up for it.
In her experience being called "w
A caustically fabricated memory sets a spark in the first exhalation of morning (afternoon?) and she has the urge to cry.
To think that dreams -nightmares- could hold her heart with such terrible claws (but the thoughts of him hold reigns so tightly on her back; he knows many pretty women, and it's only natural to worry after the undressing, the holding hands, the crying in front of him). To think that even sleep, once repose, could beckon tears and heart-shivers and immobility.
She ponders why, all of a sudden, sleep is frightening again.
Perhaps it's the empathy of her nature. She feels heart-wrenching guilt for moments long past; sh
Trains thunder and lips crash. It's another sweaty, pulsating night hidden by red curtains and a hand over her mouth. The train horn blows and she arches her back, eyes squeezed tight, her clothes scattered across the floor like leaves.
She recedes into the crevice of his collarbone with a breath of addiction, kisses it with dejection. His conviction to keep her in his arms is hard like cinderblock and his eyes are puddles of passion dripping her name as he whispers:
"I love you."
The earth hums, the train screeches, accelerates, the conductor loses control. Hot breath, rhythmic exertion, his name (and God) condensate on glass, and tre
The path to success is an obsession for his family. So, he goes to boarding school because everyone expects it of him and it is natural to follow after his spectacular sister's footsteps.
His uneducated parents tell him this day after day as he grows up and changes from a tiny, scrawny boy who played in the mud and the bushes in the mountain forest to a preteen destined for an educated, successful life. He puts on the school uniform everyday that tells everyone in the crowd that, "yes, I am an intelligent child that gives my parents pride."
He lives in a small town with his father who drives trucks across country and a mother who owns a
I fell hard for him when we talked about the universe and I realized how amazing it was to find myself tucked under the crook of his neck. Because here I am, spending all this time at his house while college classes churn their way along without me, friends live their lives without me, and for all I know what we have is the galaxy.
Matter stops spinning. We're on this little spot of a planet in his bed underneath light made by stars that have died thousands of years before us in horrible, catastrophic ways. Yet the only things that exist are him and his offer to me to keep shoes at his place (an offer that may lead to new shampoo bottles b
It’s 9:30 AM on a snow-bright morning and he’s whistling loudly. He treads through slush, meets us college kids at the bus stop, and speaks with alcohol-stale breath.
“G’mornin’, young ladies!” He sounds like country and warm summer farms.
We smile and nod, let him ramble because no one likes a drunkard. No one likes the obnoxious honesty, the rancid vulnerability. Keep the sadness at home, sir, for you must be a sad, sad man to be drinking so early. Or, if you don’t have overdue bills and four nicotine-stained walls, finish your beer at your usual street corner.
Don’t speak to him.
Ign
She falls in love with the orange glow of his cigarette in the blue night. His right hand finds hers as they fly through a sea of red and white lights, the car filled with his smoke. Their destination this night is his past that intrigues her, is the place that he finally escaped, and she's a little nervous.
Late to every destination they fumble with the room keys in the cold dark, only bother unpacking toothbrushes, lingerie, and lube. They make love in sparsely furnished motels, throw familiar clothes into unfamiliar closets, obsess over each other's bodies into sweaty sunrises and empty orgasms.
When they take walks hand in hand their
Children covet their wounds. Band-aids, they implore as they cradle scabs and bruises, tears engorged like dew at the corners of their eyes. They ask you for the remedy, for the kisses to make it feel better. They don't know how to fix it themselves.
So, like a child I think of how the fucker drowned me in alcohol for a night that, once excitement and a girl with a lovely name, will fade as the night he took it from a girl who never even kissed anyone before him (too easy, he would say). The chokehold of the taste of Bacardi lips, the two days of bleeding afterwards beckons childlike whimpers and tearful sobs late into lonely nights (and I
The path to success is an obsession for his family. So, he goes to boarding school because everyone expects it of him and it is natural to follow after his spectacular sister's footsteps.
His uneducated parents tell him this day after day as he grows up and changes from a tiny, scrawny boy who played in the mud and the bushes in the mountain forest to a preteen destined for an educated, successful life. He puts on the school uniform everyday that tells everyone in the crowd that, "yes, I am an intelligent child that gives my parents pride."
He lives in a small town with his father who drives trucks across country and a mother who owns a
23. i have a degree in zoology from the ohio state university. my heart's home will always be southern california, and i am engaged to the love of my life.
but actually fuck this shit.
i will not be vulnerable, and i will not be weak.
i will close myself off from the world before anything breaks me.
i will not let anyone see what i truly feel.
fuck this shit.
i fell in love/said goodbye
i don't belong/don't want to belong
i don't need anyone i don't need anyone i don't need anyone i don't need anyone i don't need anyone
i don't need anyone.
i don't need him
or him
i don't need you
to rip myself into shreds
Lol Don't fret. It like that for every body. I guess what you could do is keep things in a file that can serve as inspiration. That's what I'm doing anyway.