i'm back from outer space

this friday & or & this saturday
i did not study for poli sci. did not read for british lit.
bacardi. smirnoff. southern comfort. and clubs and hugs and cheap mouths to mouths.
i don't want to hurt you. i hope your blind.

there is no satisfactory chaser on a sunday night when i'm here reading foriegn books and you're not.
close my eyes, hold my chest.
where do you go at night now. i swear i can hear your feet breaking the tiles on the floor.
the crashes keep me up and inside.
these creases you left in the palms of my hands and the crevice of my eyes
& the forever altered state of my space
when did you get so. invisible, out of reach. scentless.
but still, it's like you never fucking left.
i thought i felt it. this wait. wait!

the psalm of erasing and extracting
the you from these sheets and the
scent of a time spent wrecking time
and the touch of your hand on my
desk and this disc that you left
that i hear without playing
it is as though, though;
you will not leave. not with bleach alternative
or hard love.

wait? stay? wait.
insufferable silence, screaming space.
this towel, and the scapes that you make on my life
and our sink & the half empty bottle of water
i have an address to make.

i saw bright eyes in pittsburgh @ laga last sunday with caity. connor was choice. emo kids and scenesters everywhere, blinding me. all in all, a good night. although i forgot that indie kids don't sing a long, which is a total bummer. it was okay though - i acted all cool and just nodded like all the hip boys in flared jeans. sometimes i hate liking the music i do because of the other people who like it. the elitist attitude of the kids becomes problematic with my way of thinking. of course, i then realize that most of the people i choose to associate with are elitist emo kids anyways, and i give up being annoyed about it.

i was so sad there. it brought out how i've been feeling all february. blank, gray, aimless wandering & routine & exercise & fatigue. i feel like i'm doing nothing, and that this feeling is not okay. i long to be productive, and school does not provide the means and exercise does not provide this and work did not provide this, friends and activities and tae kwon do don't quite fill the void. i want to be appreciated and well-groomed and well-fed. i want to be nurtured. it's okay, being treated like shit. i could keep going but i hear that i shouldn't. they tell me i shouldn't. it's not okay, per say. when i told you i longed to feel productive you said "oh.. well, i don't understand. you, you're more productive than me." i felt even less productive when you said this to a crying me on the phone who longed to build houses in third world countries for no particular reason, who was and is naive but is still very much is trying to be a good goddamn person, an unamerican in america, well-rounded and caring. this semester, it's worse, but my motives are better.

and then somehow i don't want it. and maybe the last thing i want is a relationship because i feel like i'm not good at them, because i always pick that guy - the soft spoken one that is not so soft with my head or my heart, with problems surpassing mine. i become a mother, not a girlfriend. i'm not a good mother, can't be a good girlfriend. but i will learn how to cook and drive, build fences, join the rowing team, take up kick-boxing, do community service and become a professional at this unending game of solitaire.

bri-an-na ma-ri-a brenn-en. she was a good girl, so much potential. sadly, she spent her life engaging in failed and tedious attempts at casual dating with guys who had trendy names, like christoph! and erik! , finishing off each date with a shot of smirnoff and wave of incongruence, laying in bed for hours still contemplating matters such as why tom didn't call her on her 18th birthday at the very beginning, or maybe the true sad end of all of this, and how sleep has never come easy. she spends hours every night staring at the cracks in the ceiling, wondering why she never let herself feel good enough and deserving of anything more than a nice face and make out marathons with these pseudo-desirable guys who make lives out of leaving her hanging and alleging claims of her having chronic bad breath before leaving forever with a bag of gummy bears and a chunk of her heart. all those cracks in the ceiling become too overwhelming, too finite to take anymore. one day her heart just stopped beating. all that potential, wasted on the sea of incisions on the ceiling. all that potential, and no afterglow.

# posted by bray : 11:16 PM  0 comments

your brand new heart. windexed.