writings – Page 2

Oh, I’ve got less than a week left…

I hear my heart gently breaking. I hear the soft creaking of floor boards as my weight crosses a dark, moonlit room. I hear the whisper of my fantasies carried on a breeze. I hear your name roll of my lips, like poison I drink from my own mind, the vile creator of my torment. There is no one but you on my mind, there is anyone but you on my mind, I can think of nothing, not even for an infinitesimal second can I bring myself to think of anyone else but you. Just you, in all of your imperfect glory, in all of your imperfect existence and in all of your perfect being that I’ve crafted, a cocoon of my own mental fantasy and needs, constructed from nothing but pure lust and thought. I find myself enthralled by my version of your existence. It feeds my hunger, satiates my longing, and quenches my thirst for an everlasting emotional torrent of pain. I crave this need and need this craving. So, tell me something, tell me something, tell me something. At what point should I stop. At what point can I let the tears fall, let you go, cut the string, forget everything. At what point should I stop? At what point should I forget about all of this, forget and renounce this morbid life of love, forget and renounce all of this rich and vapid feeling, all of this emotion, all of this so called, all of this, all of this mess. When can I bury myself in this grave, because I’ve dug deep enough, I’ve dug deep enough. At what point, I beg, I plead, I ask, I need an answer, an answer and a goodbye. Cut the string for me, slit my throat, just don’t leave, just don’t leave. I hear my heart gently breaking. I hear you slowly stepping on the pieces of what’s left. I hear the soft, dying moan of what used to be me. I hear the shrill cry, the agony of a dying man, a dying ideal. I hear everything, I hear all of this, all of this, all of this superfluous noise. Yet, all I need, all I need, all I need is to just hear you.

What is it that makes me so digress?

And now, now that I’m alone, can I cry? I can cry just a little bit to myself? It’s not really even about you anymore. It’s about me. It’s always been about me. But sometimes, I like to think that it’s about you, but no, that’s a terrible.

Where are from, where are going, why are you here, why am I here, why do I need this so much, why do I need this so much, why do I need this like I need a drug, like I need a shot of Novocain?

I love you.

Can I even say that to you with a straight face? Can I even say that to anyone with a straight face and a straight meaning? Do those words mean anything more to me than just words? A symbolic representation of something that I’ll never feel, so elusive, so fickle, so fiendish and ghastly and horrid as love, something so bad, so wicked, yet I crave for, I crave for like I do life. Life. Life is horrid. Life is the feeling bubbling from chest, the feeling about to break from my ribcage like a wild animal, rip through flesh and bone and tear my soul to pieces, claws, claws, claws through this visage, this façade, this charade, this falsity I call myself and find me, find me in the center of everything, a tiny, tiny cowardly existence in the center of everything that is not myself and is, at the same time.

I feel like dying for you, not out of obligation, but out of curiosity and the need for experience. There is a tingling in my arms, my hands, and my mind is filled to the brim with just you. I see you and hear you and feel you and it’s all just you, a three letter word that means so much more. You, you, you, you, everything from words, letters, moments, sounds, just you, the pure simplicity of the world comes to in the form of a man, a man who means less to me as he is than as he is in my mind. If I never sat next to you, if I never met you, my life would not be any different. You’d simply be spared my presence.

Congratulate

Its international tell someone you like them month, according to Facebook. I hate Facebook.

I’ll find you in just a few moments. I’ll look for you in a few seconds. You’re always in the back of my mind, and try, and I try not to look in your direction, but my eyes find their way to you anyway. I try, try so hard to forget that I have but a few fleeting moments with you left. I try, try so hard to forget everything that I’ve said and done, everything about you. But, as much as I love the pleasure of pain, I’m unable to wipe this, these memories of you. As hard as I try, as often as I try, my eyes trace that unbearable three paces to your feet, my heart follows that awful longing to your face and I wonder, wonder how I’ll live without you, without your words, without your smile, without the moment of awkwardness I share with you, without you in general, general relativity.

I think

I’m going to be okay.

I really

hope that I’m going to be okay.

I actually

know that I’m not.

Are you

okay?

The promise of tomorrow is the promise of my broken heart.

More time with or without you is the promise of my broken heart.

I saw the Raconteurs today. One, two, two, words: Motherfucking awesome. ‘Nuff said.

God, that was some good fucking shit, good fucking shit.

Thumb caught in his belt buckle and a smile across his lips, he saunters slowly in her direction. It’s a quiet smile, a quiet moment and it’s a slow progression.

There are so many shades of black. I’ll say what’s on my mind. Mind numbing fear? Ear ringing noise? Heart breaking love?

Shades of Black

“Just jump.”

In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, slowly, it’ll come to her. Her breath is her metronome, the tartan track is her instrument, a stretch of maroon striped with white like the ivories of a piano, the strings of a guitar, the valves of a trumpet; it’s an instrument she knows well, her spikes dig lightly into the track. The sky is still, the light blue of summer hangs like a shirt left out to dry on the line. A bird cuts across her vision like a razor, ripples the stillness.

***

“On your six, don’t look. He’s walking this way.” High school romances, if there are such things, are the worst. She’s nudged in the ribs as she carries her precariously stacked plate of cafeteria food. She almost drops it out of surprise, and a little bit out of anxiety.

Lunchroom, seventh period, (unknowing) love of her life enters left. Perseus Holt, like a sickeningly wonderful nightmare, like a thunderstorm on a sunny day, like squeal of a dying animal, passes by guarded on both sides by his friends. Chatting, laughing, his presence, for even the brief moment that she feels a slight breeze from his passing, completely numbs her mind. Her friend, a bouncing bundle of fiery red curls, jabs her again and says, “God, Elysia don’t turn so red.”

They sit near a window. She shakes a packet of ketchup and rips it open, pouring the condiment over her fries. In a moment, she’ll look for him. In a moment, she’ll scan the crowded cafeteria, scan the sea of people for his light blond hair, his black (he looks good in black, he only wears black, and once a yellow shirt with the most absurd picture of a kangaroo) shirt, his slightly hunched form over some table, scan the room for his voice, catch a word or two. Only in a moment, only in a moment but she daren’t any earlier. This sacred treaty with herself she dares not break.

“How was the math test?” Katherine peels back the plastic tab of a fruit cup gingerly, trying not to spill the juice. Licking her thumb, she breaks the plastic wrappings of her utensil set against the table. “Heard it was pretty bad.”

“Awful,” Elysia replies, amber irises following Perseus’ path across the lunchroom before flickering back to Katherine, “How was your,” her voice acquires a playful edge as she picks up one of her ketchup slathered fries, “English skit?”

Katherine sighs slowly, rolling her eyes, “Alright, so, I told you about Johnny Woo?” She begins, feeling rather tedious about the retelling of her unfortunate English skit. Elysia nods, sucking her lips under her teeth, trying to suppress a laugh in anticipation of the story as Katherine continues, “Right, so we tell this kid, bring in his copy of the book, and guess what? He forgets, he forgets! So he makes up everything!” Emphasis on the two words, her hands grabbing at her hair, “he doesn’t just ask for another copy of the book, he could’ve just borrowed a book, he totally could’ve. Instead he deems himself this great,” hands waving, as if trying to pull words from the air like magicians do rabbits, “this great, great impromptu Shakespearean playwright and just makes up the rest of Hamlet!”

Elysia watches, but barely listens, her friend’s rant, her little fits of insubstantial anger are hilarious. Out of the corner of her eye, beyond Katherine’s wild gestures and flurry of words, beyond Johnny Woo’s inherent inability to understand what poetic meter is, she sees the Perseus. Strolling across the linoleum floor of the cafeteria, he brushes by a table of freshman girls who watch his every motion just as she does, and all cluster together after he moves on, the oyster shell of their clique closing as they whisper in a vicious frenzy among themselves. He approaches a vending machine, and she’s reminded by her own mental narration of the scene of some animal documentary she’s seen on TV.

The boy slots his quarters into the machine, she notes the slight pause, and enters the code for a can of Coke. Tucking his wallet back into his back pocket, he bends down to grab the refreshment. As he turns, a sudden hiss accompanies the opening of the can. Before he presses the chilled lip of the metal to his own lips, his light grey (or, where they blue? She couldn’t really decide, she never really got the chance, either) meets hers.

She ran over a deer once, on the highway, when she wasn’t a too particularly experienced driver (she still isn’t). Right before impact, like some sort of infernal judgment from her own invisible, sorely personally God, her own higher power burned the image of the poor doe, the white of its eyes, the muted gaze of fear, into her mind. She imagines, at this moment, that’s exactly what she looks like to him, a deer in headlights, but there’s nothing to run her over.

“I gotta go.” She says rather suddenly, cutting off Katherine.

“Really?” Her friends asks, checking her digital watch, one of those large, shock resistant, mud resistant, water resistant things that Elysia refers to as life resistant, 12:53 stares back at her, “It’s early.”

Elysia slings her backpack over her shoulders, places all of her random wrappers and napkins and her half-empty (or, half-full?) milk cartoon onto her Styrofoam plate. Katherine watches all of this curiously, following her rather flustered friend’s movement and sighs with an understanding nod and smile as she turns around to see the back of Perseus Holt, can of soda in hand, walking away.

“I don’t know why you worry so much,” Katherine remarks, eating her own fries, “I’ve been telling you this for, like, an entire year. Just the way he looks at you, the way you look at him, you have to see it for yourself sometimes. You two are like a pair of forlorn lovers separated by the vastness of the lunchroom. All you have to do is, one of these days, just go over and talk to him.”

“Don’t talk so loud!” Elysia squeaks shrilly, alarmed by the openness with which Katherine blathers about everything, she feels like a caged mouse, “people are looking at us!”

“Correction, people are looking at you,” Katherine nonchalantly waves a fry in her direction. She leans back in her plastic lunchroom chair, tipping it back so that it rested on the hind legs, giving her a perfect, albeit upside down, view of Perseus Holt staring at her beet red friend. “So is he.”

Elysia suppresses the need to just scream, to just yell till she looses her voice and to stop remembering everything, everything little glance, every little look, every one of these little moments, everything about him just drives her crazy, everything he does, he says, everything he doesn’t do and doesn’t say. “I’m going to the library.”

“You really should just go to him!” Katherine calls after her and retreats to her plate of food with a grin.

***

The sun, a livid, glaring white forces her to squint as she stares down the track. She wonders if he’s here, sitting with his group of friends, somewhere in the bleachers, under the same hot and oppressive sun, watching her. She cringes at that last thought, the same old anxiety in her stomach mixes with this morning’s breakfast, mixes with her rainbow of feelings for him, mixes with a certain dread and anxiety of an imperfect jump, a blender, a whirlpool of all the things weighing her down, draining into the emptiness of her self.

In. Out. In. Out.

***

She settles in a quiet corner in the back of the library, hidden well amongst shelves of ancient books with browning pages and worn covers, with marble inlays and gold etchings, torn copies of Scientific America that no one reads, catalogs of journals untouched and undisturbed for decades, with the soft whisper of central air condition playing gently in her ear. She settles, like the ocean after the quakes of a ship pass, like dust displaced by sudden movement,

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force this moment to its crisis?

I give up trying to channel my repressed emotions, I’m going back to writing like a normal human being.

The clinking of silverware and muffled footsteps wake her. The apartment is tiny and his noise becomes her noise. With a groan she gropes in the darkness for the digital clock and almost blinds herself with the green, electronic buzz of 2:03 blaring in her eyes. She tosses the clock back where she found it, sits up, blinks several times, looks around at the dark emptiness of the bedroom, follows a pair of car headlights as it throws rectangular patches of amber light up on the ceiling and thumps against her pillows and sheets in mild annoyance.

“Honey!” She calls out.

The response comes in the form of silverware against tiled floor and her husband’s little cries of surprise and fluster. The kitchen lights turn on.

“Are you okay?” She calls out again.

“Just,” her husband’s voices starts, “Good god! I mean, I’m fine, just fine, just fine. I just dropped some, some, uh, pot roast on the, the, uh, dog.”

“Oh, alright, come back to bed when you’re done. Don’t forget-” She turns over in the sheets, ready to enjoy the rest of her four hours of sleep when she realizes that, “You dropped the what on the what!?”

Riza and Roy Mustang, married five years, go through everyday as if it were their first.

Do I have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? God, I wish I did, every once in a while, I wish I were a lot braver than I actually am. I wish that I had a little less shame than I actually did, a little less face, and a lot more faith, a little less of everything and a little more of everything and every three or four, every five and six, a copy of my chemistry textbook so I won’t fail my test tomorrow. A copy of my life textbook so I won’t I fail my life tomorrow. A copy of my life, actually, just so I can laugh at myself later. Laugh at my little insecurities and little, and just everything.

I try really hard to avoid it. I try really hard to stop thinking about it. I try really hard to remember to try really hard to stop thinking, just stop thinking and maybe it’ll go away, maybe this feeling, this ache, this dull, dull ache, like falling on a hot, sticky sidewalk and scraping your knees sort of ache, would just go away, but it won’t, it doesn’t. And when he, the source of all my supposed misery, the supposed receiver of all of my romantic transgressions and occasional lustful fantasy, when he leaves, he leaves only more misery, in another form, another shape. There are only so many shades of black, but each is worse than the one before and each kills me more, and each is darker than the next, and in this case, need I, dare I, face the next? Need I seek the tragedy of a life that I haven’t lived? Need this be the end of my high school career, or half of it anyway, in tears and agony and some sort of heartbreaking confession on the last day of school. One that he won’t have time to digest and one that, pretty much, will be sorely mocked and forgotten, yet took almost all the courage I ever will have to make? Is this really all my life will ever, ever, ever amount to? A dull ache, a slight remembrance of what it all used to be like? And we just sit there, and I just sit there, and mourn the loss of a time, a simpler time in my life where I needn’t think for myself, where my allocation of time factored not into the way my life turned out, where numbers on paper, where tests and the rest of my life had no real, no substantial, play in any of my thoughts, mere shades and shadows and impending doom that the live in the moment type of people, like myself, just seriously ignored. Really? I only want to ask one question, direct one question at God, if given the chance, “Really?” And if he answers, “Really.” Then, I die happy.

People in your life are like seasons. My headphones are electromagnets. Of course, I learned that wonderful tidbit of information in class (next to him, oh, but of course), only today did I realize that, oh, yes, my headphones are fucking electromagnets. Fucking hell, that was amazing, the practicality of a class like physics smacked me in the head today and I thought about, again, of what it’d be like to be a physicist. To make absolutely no money whatsoever but to be continuously dumfounded and amazing by things like, “Christ, my headphones are repelling each other.”

I mean, what else am I supposed to devote my energy to, besides the obvious, besides the not so obvious, and the fact that my headphones repel each other. It’s cool, it’s insanely cool and I can’t get over it. It’s like the first time I tasted candy, I don’t even remember how cool that must’ve been. I don’t remember the first half of my childhood (the second part makes me think the first isn’t really worth remembering, so I don’t think I’m missing on much), but really, life is a nifty experience. To be or not to be? I’m going to fucking be. Underline that shit green, or whatever. Yeah, I’m going, how does that quote run, something about slings and arrows, or whatever. Yeah, hit me, hit me, bitches. Sure, whatever. I’m not really fond of Shakespeare. I just don’t really like him. Maybe it’s because I never really picked him up and read him, but, I’m not really fond of him. Dare I say it, I’m more of a modernist when it comes to my literary diet. Eventually, though, eventually, I want to put myself through classical literature. Train myself in ancient Greek, or something. It’d be awesome. Spectacular. Read not in my native language, read in the native language of the other half of me and write poetry and make allusions to myths and works, and John Milton, because I find that man to be seriously inspirational.

I’m going to fail that chem. Test.

That physics test.

That mandarin test.

That math test.

Forget about that paper.

I’m not gonna write anything, ever, ever again.

It was a terrible paper.

She’s going to be disappointed.

I hope to god she is, but I really hope to god she isn’t.

I’m gonna hand in one, with corrections, or whatever.

I feel like I should.

I should.

Life of a musician? How is that any different, except I sing about my god awful problems? How’s that any different than what I do now, except I put that all to music? How’s it any different!

Death must hate the human race. Poor man and his tedious job, he really must hate the human race.

3:53, not really sleeping again. Writer’s block of some sort, or just tired?

I’m like a trash can holding all the information.

I might go take a shower now. What is it, 4:40? Alright.

After I listen to this song two more times and my review sheet decides to print.

I’m gonna draw up my mandarin review sheet, tomorrow. Retrieve my bloody textbook, tomorrow. Think about stuff, tomorrow. And count the days, tomorrow, to the end of school, in my head, during that seemingly random…thing they have planned for us. That, orientation is not the right word, presentation is too casual, gathering is just strange (Magic, ha) and I’m stuck going to summer prep school. I’ve been in SAT but I’m in it again, with calc on the side. Hooray for the Asian parent. I want to apply to be a TA next year, my god.

Prom, semi-formal, SAT II, team dinner, Sex and the City? At least I’ll see Miles again, come next year, Villiger, States, Grands (maybe?) and wherever else. No, the other one’s not coming back on alumni day.

4:44, that’s an awful number, time…time reading, or whatever. It’s quite unlucky in Chinese.

He lives inside his headphones and he barely pays attention to anything, which, ultimately, might be the reason why he bumps into trash cans, streetlights, people, walls, pretty much everything. He ignores just about everything and turns up those giant round things, like parasitic clams clinging to his ears, all the way and air guitars every once in a while. People usually do this in the shower, or, when no one’s around, but that’s just the way he is.

One can’t really blame him, the way the world is, I suppose it’s dull for a guy like him. No one really even knows his name until he bumps into you, which is how we met. It’s a real surprise he can hear anything anyone else says, or that he listens to what other people, humans, have to say.

Headphones, kids, never wear headphones. Never associated with people who live entirely in headphones, it’s better to just keep walking, or not say anything. Of course, in my situation, saying something was inevitable, but really, stick to the normal side of things.

“My god, I’m terribly sorry,” I said rather hastily, I was carrying a large bucket of paintbrushes of varying sizes, running down a silent hallway halfway through fifth period, trying to appease my eccentric art teacher when, he, this kid with these giant, bulging headphones, turns a corner with his eyes closed, fingers mimicking, what I found out later to be Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze, some sort of a guitar solo and runs into me. Everything goes flying, me, my bucket of paintbrushes, the kid and his headphones.

What do you call these things? Introductory physics has its perks, namely the cute kid that sits next to me, so forgive me if I can’t classify the collision as elastic or inelastic. I start picking up the random pieces of, at the time, I thought to be my eternal damnation. Ms. What’s Her Name is going to have the largest fit ever, when she finds that her perfect (actually, these brushes were terribly shoddy anyway, public schools, what can you do?) paintbrushes were, for a lack of better words, not anymore.

“Uh,” he stood there, rubbing his head, headphones around his neck, apparently they came flying off when he fell, less damage done there, “Uh.”

“Uh!?” I almost screamed at him, I must’ve looked ridiculous. Back then, I used to wear these god awful plastic, red rimmed glasses and used to put my hair up in a bun, clipped in the back with one of those street fair shop artsy hairclips. I don’t remember exactly what I was wearing that day but it feels like a black tee with some band or another across the front, it’s not like I wake up in the morning and actually care what I dig out of my closet, which, by the way, looks a lot like a war zone. But, back then, I used to have a thing for cargos and oversized t-shirts, XXL for no good reason. It came out a lot harsher than expected, but I was pretty irritated, like a bad flu of an angry virus and we stood there, after that awkward exchange of “Uh’s!” just looking at each other.

“Uh.”

I snorted. He laughed. And we spent another good five minutes just laughing. (What’s his name, Oscar Wilde, was it? Had a quote that ran along the lines of something like laughter might not be the beginning of a good friendship, but it’s certainly a good ending to one. He, of course, is a lot more articulate than I am when it comes to these epigram things, so, I’ll leave it up to you to actually go find the quote. I’m not even sure how this is truly relevant to my story or headphone kid, that’s what I call him, even though I know his real name, but, it was a worthy side note. Hence, the parenthesis.)

“Holt. Perseus Holt.” Introduced himself James Bond style. I returned the favor.

“Jones. Lillith Jones.” If you typed our names into Microsoft Word, which is the only I communicate nowadays, over keyboard. Writing is overrated and my handwriting is illegible anyway, technology really saves my ass every now and then, and SparkNotes. Right, but if you type both our names into Word, they’re both underlined red. I like the way Word underlines things, it alerts me to all of my little faults, spelling mistakes and incorrect use of grammar and what not.

“Beautiful.” He replied, out of nowhere and with a deep tone of admiration. I stopped, half bending down, half getting up and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Say what?” I’m rather obtuse, I don’t think politeness is even a word in my dictionary. I say what’s on my mind, and sure, someday, someone will hate me for it, and I’ll get shot, that’s what they all tell me, but it’s not like I really mind that either. Better shot for calling someone out for what they are, better shot for saying what’s on my mind, than living a life of so called politeness, or mental repression.

I really don’t mind what you call me, anything but sugar pie or cuddles. He has a tendency to call me both, mind you, not out of affection. Never, ever, divulge too much of your pet peeves to anyone, or your annoyances, or, god forbid, your secrets. That sorta thing tends to fuck you over in the long run like no tomorrow. He calls me sugar pie on a daily basis. Sometimes I wished I didn’t break those wonderful headphones of his, or he might not have been around to hear me tell him all that stuff.

“Your name is beautiful.” He elaborated.

“Thank you,” I remarked slowly with an odd sense of appreciation on one hand, and on another, a strange sense of strangeness, for a lack of better words. “Your name is, uh,” I was digging for words here, harder than a mole digs his hole, “rather heroic.” I felt like an idiot. I barely remember who Perseus is except for the guy who rescued that chick, what’s her name? Andromeda? Like the star system, like the TV show.

“Wanna go out with me?”

Alright, I like surprises, but this was just weird. Not only was I seriously late for fifth period art, not only will I be killed by Ms. What’s Her Name when I return to fifth period art with all of her brushes messed up and in some sort of incoherent mess, but what the hell is this kid talking about?

“What!?” That came out louder than expected.

“Will you go out with me, Lillith Jones?” He repeated with a grin across his sheepish face and ran a hand through his hair. For the first time, I noticed he had this amazing strawberry blond hair and a set of pale, pale eyes that felt like ice cubes, for a lack of imagination.

“But why!?” Still exasperated over everything, I looked up seriously, from behind my red rimmed glasses, and kept looking.

“By the merit of your name,” was his reply and I just kept looking, and felt my mouth part slightly.

“Really?” I settled my weight onto my left leg, clutching a paintbrush I brought one of my fists to my hip and gave him another look.

“Really really,” he was awfully serious and the grin was replaced by a stern look of absolute determination. He was really animated for a guy who lived completely in a pair of headphones, who lived completely in music. Facial expressions, his eyes, the way he carries himself, totally unexpected. Never knew he existed until right about now, either.

“Convince me.” I challenged. I wanted to see what this kid had going, I mean, at this point, it was just really, really strange. Kid, headphones, paintbrushes, a date, late for class. God-motherfucking-damn.

No sooner had the words left mouth did I feel his hand grab mine and in this elaborate movement, one of those spin-twirl things they whip out at you in dance competitions, will all those people in their little dresses and shoes and costumes, he spun me around in the hall into his arms, I heard the paintbrush I was just carrying clattered against the linoleum floor (when did I even let go of it?), he dipped me back in his arm, I was certain he was going to bite me, like something from a cheap horror movie, on the neck. Then, his lips met mine and I almost screamed if not for the strange wonder I felt when I tasted, and don’t think I’m crazy, what felt like a sunrise on his lips, like the wonder of a crisp, red sunrise across the city. Totally fucking weird encounter, weird kiss, in the hallway. Fuck fifth period.

“Convinced?” He asked, looking at me as he cradled me in his arm, his strawberry hair falling into my eyes, grazing the slightly grimy lenses of my glasses. I couldn’t speak for a moment and just looked at him. I must’ve looked even more ridiculous, half wannabe tomboy, face (most likely) red as hell, in a large, extra, extra large AC/DC t-shirt from her father’s better days, with a curious expression of shock on her face. “Good.”

With that, he walked me down the hallway, away from my mess of paintbrushes, down the three flights of stairs, the north staircase, if I remember correctly and just right out the front door of the school, despite the curious glances of the security guards and whatever else’s that prevent kids from just waltzing right out of school. Mind you, we actually just waltzed right out of that building.

Perseus Holt. One serious fucking character right there.

“Oh, and my headphones are broken.”

“Uh!”

God….

All I really want is just him. And that’s about it. That’s about it. And the more I write and the more I think, the worst it gets and the worst it seems.

Of course I miss him. What else do I think about nowadays? Not missing him? Oh, you give me too much credit. I miss him like hell. I want to stop thinking about him. But it’s ridiculously difficult.

Truth to tell, he had no idea where he was going. There was something dangerously alluring to a city at night, with amber lights, silent streets and swish of cars on the highway. The mannequins, decked in spring fashion, were his company.

“So, uh,” he started, plucking a grape from the empty branches sitting in the bowl, “how was your day?”
“Marvelous, yours?” She replied without looking up, her fingers settled gently on the ivory keys and with delicacy and slowness she started playing, as if she were testing the water. The music escaped from the piano, a prisoner set free, echoing across the hall, the sunlit pooled like an angel’s hair on the marble floor.
“A little less than marvelous, I have to say,” he ate another grape, “somewhere between tragic and depressing.”
“Miserable?”
He weighed the word in his mind and after some deliberation said, “Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “yeah, miserable.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your misfortune.” He watched her fingers fluttered between keys.
“Sarcasm noted,” he rested one elbow on the piano and looked at her with a playful curiosity and slight grimace of pain, “it really shouldn’t surprise you how my days are, the way you treat me.”
“I’m not surprised, Mr. Frost,” she replied, a string of notes flowed from the instrument, she paused, fingers on the keys and looked up at him for the first time, “I’m delighted.” And she pounded down on her next chord.
“Lillith, you’re too pretty to be so terrible.” He got up and strolled over to the window. A plump, red bird landed on a branch, its beady eyes turning to meet his.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
The bird jerked forward and spread its wings, soaring towards the sun and for a brief moment, Frost was reminded of Icarus. The branch wavered. He turned and looked at her, the way her chocolate curls rested on her shoulders, in the crook of her collarbone, he returned to the piano, but this time put his arms around her neck. The music continued.
“But this will,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ears.
“Try harder, Mr. Frost.” She replied, matching his decibel.
His hands found their way to her breasts, her nipples were stiffening from his mere touch. He massaged them gently, a small moan escaping from her lips as she missed note. His lips found their way to her neck, small nips and kisses made her quiver, leading to her lips. He gently tipped her head towards his. She strained to key playing, as he kissed her, the music stopped.
She spun around on her bench to face him, a hand in his golden hair, his busy hand moved further down her body, down her stomach, towards her legs.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” She mumbled, as he broke the kiss and moves to one of her astute nipples. He grunted in response, one hand up her skirt already, he gently palmed her through her underwear, feeling her wetness.
“You’re one to talk,” he grinned, looking up at her.

Lab (why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?)

William Frost died on a Monday.
He slammed his index finger in car door that morning and spent the next ten minutes, as he crossed the company parking lot in hurried steps, furiously shaking his hand, biting his lower lip to ease the pain, and mentally cursing his own stupidity.
He stepped into the elevator following the flow of bodies and found himself jammed between a short, plump woman and a man with horn rimed glasses and amazingly high cheekbones. There was a burning sensation between the first and second knuckle of his finger, his car door, he assumed. The lift rose steadily, silently through the building, ascending thirty some odd floors in a matter of seconds, shoulders and briefcases nudged past him as the silver doors slid open with a hum.
Alone he was in the elevator after the exodus of people with another woman whom he had never met before and certainly would have liked to meet again.
William Frost was not a talkative man, but when the occasion called, he tried very hard.
“Hi.”
At first she did not notice him, dismissing the murmured and barely audible greeting.
He was about to try again, but decided against it seeing how his first attempt failed. Long, brown hair that curled slightly resting in the crook of her back, a glossy sheen of blood red across her lips, emerald green eyes staring, unblinking, at the floor numbers as they were illuminated, the curve of her perfectly formed breasts under her snow white blouse-
“My name is William!” He almost yelled. She whipped around, her hair flying, green eyes outlined black, wide in surprise.
“Hi,” she started. Her voice bubbled like champagne and wispy cigarette smoke in a dingy parlor, sweetness with a bitter edge, a dirty martini, something aged and jaded in the way her irises settled on him and bore right through him, like a ruthless predator as the cork popped and her lips formed his name, “William.”
A deer in headlights, he stopped, the elevator stopped, a sharp ring announcing their arrival. His mouth felt dry as it hung half open, words waiting to be said, to roll off the tip of his tongue suddenly caught again in the cage of his teeth.
Her stilettos clicked as she stepped off, giving him a playful, teasing look over her shoulder, “Goodbye, William.” The particular smoothness of her hips etched itself in his mind as she walked away. He stepped forward, hand reaching, then the elevator doors closed, sandwiching his hand, his injured finger, between two sheets of metal.
He spent ten more minutes in pain, mindlessly daydreaming of her. He didn’t even have her name.
According to the police report, three hours after his miraculous chance encounter in the elevator, William Frost, age twenty-nine, pitched himself out of his fifty-fourth floor office window.

PHYSICS LAB

I love him when I don’t see because I think I miss. I think I love sometimes and sometimes I’m not so sure and oh god, this movie, her little monologue out front. I’m dying in pain because I love and I doubt, I doubt that he loves, I don’t even think he gives a damn, or half as much as I do about him and I’m scared to ask and all that nice noise and I’m going tod ie and die and die and eventually I’ll tell him but I’m not sure when because I don’t want him to know that’s just so strange and I think I’ll end this sentence now.

I love him and I think I do. I think I do. I know I do, or not. I need, or maybe just want, do I need him? Can I say that out loud or will I die after I admit that little unimportant factoid that no one, not even myself, ever, ever, ever needs to know? What the hell am I supposed to do?!

Emo people make it hard to write lovesick poetry. And yes, I do write lovesick poetry because every once in a while I think of you, and then you aren’t there anymore, and that’s when the emotional discontent, as I’d like to call it, kicks in.

I hate everything, grades, life, him, you, that, and like, two pennies and a television.

There’s still a little bit of me, hopefully no one will find

He really should’ve been working. But sometimes he just couldn’t concentrate on his graphs and data and files and figures and he ends up on the internet. The little pixilated mouse cursor hovering in the middle of his shiny liquid crystal display drifted closer and closer to a forbidden link. He clicked. His nineteen-inch monitor sprang to life. He was safe and secure behind his door. And he finds what he needs.

Snow falls on the city silently, a brazenly cold angel of death resting in the dull, gray curves of metal and concrete. In the morning, he wakes to a soft, mute world and stares placidly out his window as he breath fogs over circular patches of glass. His quick and sudden handiwork, all of it on a whim, his silent mistress, waiting for him to find, below him the white coils around blocks like a serpent.

His fingers are cold despite the gloves. His mind is numb despite the aspirin. His breath materializes in the frigid air and he imagines his soul escaping him. Park bench with chipping green paint and rusting brown nails, faintly blinking stars and a cup of cold coffee from some corner deli for company, a fizzing, broken streetlight arching overhead sheds a halo of light on his small epicenter of the world. There’s a strange taste on his palate, and for a moment he tries to eat air.

I talked to him on online and then I freaked out and died.

I’m in total and complete denial. Honestly, I don’t know what that feeling is, please stop. For sure, it can’t be love. I don’t know what love is and I’ll be damned if I ever, ever, find out. I’m quite sure I don’t. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! Damnit, of course I know I just don’t have the (guts) need to say it. So much work, so little time, my poor grades. I’m going to die. Curses.

No, really, no, really. I mean, god, that was so good, that was so, so, so, so, so good. Tokyo Godfathers, fucking brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

I like him, I don’t, I don’t know! Goddamnit, goddamnit, do I actually have some sort of disorder I’m really good at suppressing. I don’t sleep anymore, or, I sleep during the day, is that some sort of a problem? I need to get my labs done. I’m not getting any of it done. Hold.

Right, so, yeah. What do I have to do…

Math, where is that anyway?

Physics, let’s break this down…ahaha…

Labs

Resub (where the hell is your test?! Ugh!)

Free resub work (there are always the answers online, goddamn my conscience)

Right, so aside from that…

English essay (where the hell is THAT slip of paper, now?)

Really, I think I’m going insane. Or at least I want to, so I have an excuse for the sorry way my sad, dear little life turned out. I mean, if I do get hit by a truck, all the better! I’d have a seriously entertaining excuse and a reason to hate (or, love, depending on the situation) Someone’s guts!

I hate everything about everything, but in a nice way.

I don’t want to die, not really, but it’d be nice

A lot of things are nice but really aren’t.

Utterly despicable, that’s what it is.

The way she looked at him, there was something to all of it, he just didn’t know what. The way she tilted her head back ever so slightly to look at him across the room, over the rim of her spectacles, there was something, something so small and so fragile and so tormenting about it all; he wanted to cry. He retreated to his work, but his synapses fired like machineguns, his mind in total frenzy, fireworks going off in his head. He couldn’t read words. The letters, the numbers, the little charts and graphs, the newsprint became a stage for an alphabet troupe that paraded across his vision. Dancing, chanting, the little bastards, a violent part of him suddenly interrupted, he wanted to nip them with tweezers off the page, watching them squirm as he dropped them into vats of acid, watching them die, their little pip squeak voices drowned out by his maniacal laughter. And, as sudden as his splurge of violence and insanity came, it left and he left looking at her, over the edge of his paper, over the large blocky headlines at her, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. He really didn’t understand anymore, why he’s so inept and so scared and so alone. He knew the feeling quite well, of a dark empty room, of your own breathing, of nothing, no one but yourself, coming into your own hand and hearing you own raspy breath against the bed sheets and somehow you feel less and less fulfilled each time. He didn’t even know her name. Still, he maintained that there was something to all of it and he couldn’t shake it, like the guy at the pizzeria, that short little kid without a nametag, like how he’d shake the sugar over the pastries and it’d stick, it’d stick alright. She stuck, stuck like a stamp after you lick it and you have that strange, damn strange, taste of paste and whatever else in your mouth. People can taste the difference? Skittles on your postage stamp, is that what it is? She gave him disturbing chills reminiscent of licking stamps? Is he really that sick and odd, or is it the skittles bit? Perhaps, hopefully, most definitely (not) it’s the skittles bit. She was his rainbow in a world without color. That’s so cheesy, but is that really what that is? As simple, as simple and as wonderful as that, rainbows and color and the world, his world, over the newspaper and her world, over her glasses, colliding in some monstrous wreckage of an accidental glance. He’s dreaming a ludicrous dream and god, he doesn’t want to wake up. Sometimes he has to and that’s the sad part, he wants to cling so desperately to everything because he has that fear, that fear of loosing everything, all in one day. It’ll never happen, but, you know, he’s scared. He stared back and she stared back and then she looked away. Does she know he’s staring, does she know what he’s thinking? A mind reader? Can she see inside his fucked up little head? Poking in there with her mesmerizing eyes, examining, maybe even laughing at his little fantasies and worries and oh, how her eyes, her eyes, her eyes carried that flickering look, what was it? What was it that pained him so, that momentary glance, that chance just waiting, what was it? It’s still there, but it’s gone. It’s like an empty egg shell with the little bits of egg white still sitting in the bottom. Is that all there is? God, sometimes, sometimes he wished he were blind. And then he’d take it back, quickly, very quickly. All of it, he’d take all of it back. Crumple it up, in a tiny, tiny, tiny (densely packed) ball of everything and pitch it, like he’s in the major leagues, and hopes to god someone hits it far, far, far, far away. But he can’t bat and pitch at the same time, can he? So, he’s dishing out his shit to someone else all over again. No one wants more shit than they already have and his shit is just demented. She looked up again, but not at him. Was he reading too much into that? That little something was perhaps a trick, his own imagination, sick with desperation and need created that mellifluous moment of pure ecstasy in his head. He has a disorder, he’s sure of it. And then he bends back down into economics and his paper and the little dancing letters and how he’d kill them and he’s back in there again, with all that crap. It’s all written right there as the letters rearranged themselves. Track and field star in high school, not really. Failure at life star in high school, probably, because everyone’s a star athlete in high school and they don’t grow up to mean much. What happened anyway? Too many little glances from women he never had a chance with.

Goddamn.

Yet another break, and I miss him (tragically) but not quite

I miss him because he dual boots ubuntu, do you know how ridiculous that is? I think I’m going insane. I am totally going insane. This project, the rest of my work, die! Things that like that aren’t usually good for me. It’s actually pretty bad for me. I mean, what the hell is this? It’s been fine, just fine for like a week. I haven’t even given him that much thought, until now. I mean, it’s fucking normal! UNTIL NOW! Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn. Goddamn. I told you this would happen. Do you miss him, or not? What is it that you miss? He does have a good name, oh, fucking hell. FUCKING HELL. Shut up, go away, you’re wasting time. I am wasting time. My god, my god, my god, I’m having this tragic moment of something like mental masturbation, but it’s slightly painful and slightly, mentally, insanely masochistic, almost, ooops, spelled that wrong. My dear god, please, please, please shoot me. Ever realize you have a thing for repeating words? Yes, Yes, well, now I do! Oh my dear Jesus, GOD, good lord, I’m going to die. Kill me, please, please, please, please. My god, why, why do I like him? I have no fucking idea. He probably doesn’t even care about me, which is what happens in the end anyway. But damnit, he’s blond! I meet these people and all of these people and I’m going to absolutely kill myself. I hope the other one, him, he stays. I hope he does. Or at least, I get to see him again, because he’s pleasantly blond as well. MY GOD DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION TO HELL!!! MY FUCKING GOD! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHUT UP AND STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF OVER A KEYBOARD! I WANT RICKY MEYER! JUST SHUT UP! SHUT UP! THAT SENTENCE NEVER HAPPENED! NEVER! GO AWAY GO AWAY! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! UGH!!! DIE!! DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DFINE DON’T DIE! EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL! DIE DIE DIE DIE FINE FINE FINE FIIINEEE! DAMN BITCHES! MORONS! I HATE EVERYTHING THIS IS GENERALLY WHAT HAPPENS WHAT I GET DISTRACTED AND DON’T DO MY WORK! I DIG MYSELF INTO THESE TINY LITTLE HOLES AND DIE! IN THE TINY LITTLE HOLES! WITH TOO MUCH WORK! I FEEL LIKE PATRICK! THE MOTHERFUCKING STARFISH. OMFG die. Please? Just go away. Please and never come back.

Ate too much….

I think, I found the perfect song. I mean, it’s an old song, it’s an old Linkin Park song. First song I heard by them, I think, in a Cardcaptor Sakura anime music video. Maybe, their first hit? First single? Who knows, who cares? I know I don’t. But it’s a really good. In the End.

Viggo Mortensen, or however you spell his last name, is incredibly…hot. Everything he does, everything he says, touches, looks at, just his presence on my TV screen makes me want to scream and die. He has such a strange look, such a wonderfully dangerous and demented? Scary? Look in his eyes. It makes me want to…well, alright.

I don’t feel like explaining that whole song thing. I mean, if you know me, I suppose, and you’ve heard the song, you’d understand. But, then, the point of keeping a dairy, blog, journal thing, is to explain such random references and all my feelings so that one day when I look back at the awful mess that is, was and will be my life, I’d understand. But, really, I’m too damn lazy.

I like him, a little, shut the hell up already! Stop bothering! Life is tormenting. I want to kill PEOPLE!!! WITH SHOTGUNS!! RIFLES!!! PISTOLS!!! (Maybe I just want to play Halo.) I don’t, I have, I feel like a stuffed chicken, so bloated, so big, so roasted and juicy and delicious…and I’m not exactly hungry, but food references get me. I, I don’t know anymore.

What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN YOU BITCHES!?!?!? Nature is a bitch. Life is a bitch, what isn’t a bitch? C’mon, what the fuck is wrong with you people? I just wanted to play MapleStory! MAPLE FUCKING STORY!! IT’S A DAMN KOREAN MASSIVE MULTIPLAYER! GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK EVERY ONCE IN A FUCKING WHILE YOU STUPID DIPSHIT MORONS!!!

Alright, I think, I think, I think, I might be alright, I might, I might, I might…not. I’m not exactly crazy, hormonally imbalanced, confused, possibly insane? ]

I can’t sing at all, but that’s the fun part.

I really should write that novel. I’m awkwardly inspired. It’s strange.

I need to clear my head. Really, that Buddhist thing might actually work out for me in the end. I’m always, constantly in denial. Admitting things to myself is hard, it’s painful even.

Yeah, him, what a guy. Heh, god, why the fuck do I get mixed up with these people? What did I do to deserve the pain and pleasure of knowing these fine souls, who, otherwise, would have been just fucking fine without me and I would’ve been equally fine without ever knowing. ANY OF THEM!

Spare me, please? Pretty please? Be my cherry on top?

Scream. Loud. Clear. And hopes someone hears you. Yeah, hope, not much of that going around. Take a dive off that cliff, not doing you any good just standing around. Flapping cloth in the wind, futile attempts to fly, they’re not very good wings. Enjoy it, while you’re there. The sharp rocks below, forget them. Live in the moment, moment of free fall, give yourself to gravity. Forget how cold the water is below, forget how much it’s going to hurt, in fact, it’s not going to hurt at all. Don’t regret your decision, a bullet to the head, poison? Nothing as good as running off a cliff with a running start, arms flailing and hoping, that maybe, maybe, you’ll miss. There it is again, hope. Motherfucking thing.

Are you just a little angry on the inside?

Oh, that was a good scene. That was ridiculously hot. God. Heh.

Yeah, some people are just creepy. But, he’s…okay. I guess, because I’ve been sitting next to him for a really long time. Well, it’s alright.

I’m over him, totally, no way. But, I’m trying really hard, but I see him and then I forget all my ranting and raving and all my purpose and all that…work. Trying to forget him is hard. It’s…rather….painful. Know that?

He wakes three hours early anyway, the pills weren’t that helpful. He sits there for a while, staring at his toes, the little hairs sticking up on his toes, his floor, the wood panels on his floor, the curves, twists, valleys and dips in the floor, his floor. It’s dark outside, streetlights burn amber squares of his window on the ceiling, cars pass occasionally. It’s cold, the elastic waistband of his boxers was uncomfortable, he pulls on them with a snap.

Little Korean boys break my heart. Ha.

“Take this, really, I insist, take this.” He presses a sheet of paper in her hand. “It’ll help, I swear.”

I really think it’s a sign from God, that I can’t play MapleStory. Maybe that’s how bad it is for me. But then again, it just might be my horrible computer.

I miss everyone and no one at the same time, it’s really freaking me out. Everything freaks me out, whoever said that made an excellent observation.

Cheesy dance music makes me happy on the inside, every once in a while.

I THINK I’M GOING CRAZY

I’m such a fucking hypocrite. I think, I am, oh my dear god, I’m turning to one of them, with problems and the need to talk. I THINK I AM REALLY STRESSED. IT IS WEIRD.

Breathe woman, breathe. And I think I just broke my computer table chair.

No reservations for what he says, I suppose, is the way to describe that particular personality. A willingness, maybe too much so, to express his ideas, something along those lines.

A…Royai drabble? Perhaps, I’m trying that 100 theme thing. Here goes.

They have really catchy song titles, Sleep Now In the Fire, Calm like a Bomb and what not.

MY CURE!! FOO FIGHTERS!!! Yessss, I’m saved. Please win a grammy.

Or maybe, maybe, a Royai fanfic. Not a oneshot, but a decent multi-chapter thing. I’ve got to think. I really like that scene though, Eastern Promises, that was a decent movie.

Laine’s seen him twice, sitting in the lunchroom, in a little corner, bulky headphones glued to his ears, eyes tracing patterns on the tiled floor, dressed in black with that faded blue messenger bag. He never looked up to meet her gaze, to catch her in the act, so she stared, uninhibited, day after day. She’d catch sight of him, corner of her eye, as she walks with her tray. The fruit cup sloshes as she drops the Styrofoam plate on the table. She takes on last look and then sits.

“I can’t believe he did that.” Madison whines, her blonde curls bouncing, pouting, she stuffs a forkful of broccoli in her mouth. Eyelashes curling upwards, majestically defying gravity, a pinkish tint above her vacant, blue irises, the hollowness of her eyes, Laine wonders just exactly how much of Madison is behind those eyes, those perfectly painted, trimmed and processed eyes. How much beauty in that Garden of Eden, the perfect aquiline nose, the plumped lips smeared with glitter, and the

“Did what?” She asks with feigned interest. She peels back the tab on a fruit cup, licking the juice off her thumb, all the while keeping an eye on him, headphone boy she’s labeled him.

“You know,” Madison gesticulates with her plastic spork, drawing circles in the air, “I told you, like,” a pause, she’s contemplating, “yesterday. Like, yesterday.”

Laine thinks for a moment, sometimes she just stops listening to Madison. Rude, she knows, but. It’s the same story every time, insert name here. “Oh, that.”

Okay, okay, I’m done, the more I think about what I’m going to write next, the more I think of Mean Girls, the more I think of Lindsay Lohan, the more I think of how boring, how trite, how perfectly delirious and condemning high school life actually is. Oh god, please kill me.

Foo Fighters, oh god, I love you guys.

There was something suffocating about the city, something stagnant, that somehow with each breath, there was less and less air, less and less time, less and less space left on this earth. It were as if the entire city was plastered in gray, varying shades of gray, from rooftops to shallow puddles and alleyways,

“Do you,” he begins, slow, simple, steady, walking towards her across the empty room, blue moonlight spilling across the floor. He catches her lower waist in one arm and slips a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear. And then, he whispers.

I’m also sick and tired of the reality of war. Jesus, I know it’s bad, books say it’s bad, the pictures say it’s bad. I’m through, I’m done with hearing that it’s bad!

Speaking of which, I ought to write that thing…

Lieutenant Saxon, something, I guess. Heh. Oh god, more Joan Crawford. She is terribly unattractive.

So, there was this little girl, with curls that bounce up and down and up and down when she walked, tied up with some disproportionately large pink bows that bounced with her curls. All dolled up in that lacy dress of hers, with those shiny white shoes similarly adorned with pink bows on the top, she’d skip, hop and walk up and down that block. The creepiest thing is, no one else ever saw her. Must’ve been such a bitch to walk with those damn curls.

Murderous intent, much?

Oh god, for the love of God, why is everything so cheesy, so simple? So open and shut and done with. GOD!!! DAMNNNNNIIIITT!!! Stupid morons.

Dresden Dolls concert was amazing, I think I’m in love with the drummer…

So, my terrible friend, it’s 2008. Terrible, terrible, you little thing. I’m going to miss you, sweet, miss you terribly. Farewell.

Kiss me, you foolish fool, do it, uh oh, now, some day soon, I’ll find you one, one, maybe two. Find me, when the time comes and take me with you. Don’t you dare leave me.

Scream, scream till your voice is hoarse, long and loud, feel the vibrations in the air, the molecules bouncing against each other in frenzy, feel it, feel them, feel yourself, the vibrations in your rib cage, resonance.

It’s always a pronoun, it’s never a name, it’s rarely even a person, its always just him. Who is him? He takes on as many roles as he needs to. He’s one today and two tomorrow, three in a week, fifteen next year. I love him, though, I think, I’m always thinking, never sure.

He’s amazing, though, honestly, it was mesmeric. It was like watching some god, some mythic god, half naked, sitting on the pedestal, each muscle sculpted perfectly, tensing, relaxing beneath the skin. And his, and his hair, he has the most amazing hair. It’s perfect in that light, and it’s like nothing I’ve seen before, it’s vaporous, almost, curling up at the ends, like angels, like, it is amazing, beyond comprehension. And he’s just amazing, unforgettable, gorgeous, like some porcelain doll, some mythical god, etched in porcelain, fragile and perfect. Marry me, take me. Please.

The sizzle of flesh in fire, burling, curling like paper, turning black, scattering ashes to the wind, cremation of my soul, my poor self, my poor shell, holding a candle, the flame flickering beneath the veneer of who I am, burn, burn in the fire, ferocious fires of the end, crackle.

It sounds extraordinary. Like it should be.

Resolve, resolve, resolute, resolute, resolution: do I have any? Chalk on the board, glass on the floor, cream in the cupboard, paper in the wicker basket, heart on sleeves, pieces in the bowl, forks in bath, squeaky ducky lucky, a coin-operated boy with a pretty coin-operated voice, straight and to the point. Do love me, please, two seconds in the shower, three minutes in bed, forever and ever, in a loop, just play it back for me, beat for beat, note for note, vibration for vibration, every singly moment, play it back. I’ll listen to each second over and over again just to hear you, just to feel you, a little closer, a little nearer. Loosing my senses, like I had any to begin with, do love me. Love me like no tomorrow, right now. Tomorrow may never come, it probably won’t ever come, leave it to me now, leave me now. No, no, no, bad time, good time to die, good time to die a little on the inside, the caverns of my inner walls of my exterior castle, mighty fine thing you have there. Wings, wings, yes, yes, watch me, just watch me. You just watch me, for a second I thought you left. So, so, so, so, what the hell. Oiy, oiy, ooh, hear you moan, in my little circular mind, my my my my my, all underlined red. Scoped, sniped, shoot me from my badside, if you want a straight lie, this is a good time. I want a straight lie, please, not curved. That’d kill me. Flailing like a fish out of water, flap, flap, what else can I do, lying on my side, choking on oxygen I don’t need, choking on you, thoughts of your little things, and thoughts, and key strokes and pin drop notes and perks and quirks and quarks. Choking, for a second, I thought I’d die, but I guess not. Gash, scar, ouch, help, no, never.

That was loud. Love me. Just the same as you would any other day, a little or a lot, any less or anymore, love me just the same.

Stay, stay a little while…

“Hey,” a tired, soft greeting, she slips into the sofa, cotton pajamas frictionless against her pale, milky skin. Her creamy hair falling to one side, she cocks her head to look at him.

“Hey,” he replies.

Sometimes I think about him, too. It’s weird that. You stupid bastard, you. Goddamn you, you’re kind of charming sometimes, only sometimes. And I miss sitting next to you, you make class bearable. Now, that’s taking it too far.

I liked that sword of hers. She swung it with such ease and grace, it was elegant. I liked that show, I really did. It was so warm and so…warm.

I smell like that perfume grandmother sends from China, from the depth of some murky pool, perfume to cover the stench of death. Ceaseless reaper of souls, take mine, will you?

Oh god, oh god, oh god. OH GOD!

Were you thinking what I was thinking?

“Take my hand, stay with me a little while, stay right here with me.” He took her hands, forehead against hers, looking at her, pleading, those eyes of his. A gentle wind rustles the leaves, billowing across the endless plains of grass. Was he just lonely? High above the shimmering stars glittered and danced, across the ebony halls of space, the empty of the sky, the silent oceans of waves upon waves of light, stretching from the end of the universe to another, the enormity in which he was only a small part, a small part of a bigger whole. He pleads. “Stay. Stay right here.”

She nods, she nods, she nods, she will stay, “I will stay.” She assures him, gripping his hand tighter, she will stay. Because she wants to, for his sake? Because she wants. She’s staying, because she wants to. She wants to, she wants to be here, right here, with him, under the weight of a dying world, under the weight of her own foolishness, the weight of everything in her little world, the weight of it all crashing down, for him, for him, those pleading eyes, those hollow eyes. They need to be filled, like a mold, like a mold and she’ll pour herself in, fill them, stay with him.

“I will stay.” And the sadness, sweetest smile creeps across his lips, and maybe, maybe he’s found happiness. Only after knowing true despair will one know true happiness. The emptiness at the bottom of that well, that deep, abysmal well, that was his, that was his. What did he drop down there, what did he give, what did he give to be apart of this world, what did he give that he can’t get back now? He grapples, reaches, searches and found her hand, her hand. And as he stands, here, there, here and there, under the blue blanket of the sky, the eerie quiet and echoing love of her words, he smiles, smiles to himself. He’s found it. No, no, she found it for him, reached down that well and emerged, radiant, wet, and in her hands, she’s found it, found what he once lost. Himself? Maybe, maybe a chipped self.

My eyes are itchy, dry? Tired? I sleep, I sleep now. Finally, it seems, I sleep.

Time flies; did you ever love me?

Time flies, I barely remember a thing. How long has it been? He checks his watch, three hours, maybe four, maybe a lifetime. It’s a bit weird, like a half eaten bowl of green grapes, firm, round, earthy, the little stubs where grapes should, and used, to be, sticking up and out like the inside of your lungs. It’s all a bit weird.

Tell me something, she says, lips moving, plump, rosy, smeared with red, blood filling in the crinkles, lipstick. The deteriorating sweetness of her skin, he tastes the bitter perfume, hovering just above her face he watches her speak, the formation of her words, the rise and fall of her chest beneath his, raw, smooth and dead. A streak of amber in the darkness, her wrists pinned above her head, his fingers wrapped around them like rope in a discombobulated knot. Light from the hallway interrupts the bed sheets, pierces the partition in her hair, the valley between her breasts, the hairs running down her left thigh. His fringes tickle her face, his breath mingling with hers in a twisted ritual ceremony, a beat in the musky air of the room, reverberating from wall to wall. A fire in her eyes burns past him, a desire, a lust, for the corrosive acid of his response. His hips straddle her waist, she’s strangely submissive. One last look, one last breath and he takes her, drinking the blood from her lips, the wetness of her mouth, her tongue, her soft ovals crushed against his broad chest, bare and firm. She moans a little, he edges in closer, feeling, searching for her little heart, exposed, open, drawing closer to the flame, anticipating the pain.

Did you ever love me?

12:25 AM

I’m just a little bit pathetic, aren’t I?

Yeah, it’s a bit crazy, just like that. I can still hear it, the soft, melodious sound of his voice. Words, words I have none and never will.

I think I’m in love with you. It might’ve just all started out as some sick joke I played on myself, but at some point, some random point, I might’ve actually fallen in love with you. Will you take me seriously if I tell you? Judging from that personality of yours (you’re such a jerk sometimes, thought I should tell you), you’ll probably just laugh at me. Or, maybe, seeing how you do this a lot, raise an eyebrow and squint at me, and, even more probable, you’ll think that I’m lying. I might be. I honestly might be lying, to you (if I ever told you), to myself (I do so everyday) about being in love with you. But sometimes, I can’t help it. Your smile, that unfortunate smile of yours, is permanently engraved in my mind, with a damn blowtorch. And it’s not going away. I see it, a lot, in my head, I play back seconds, seconds of time we spent together, seconds, seconds in a day, over and over and over in my head, to make the time seem longer. Is that cheesy? Was that bit, that whole bit, two or three lines long bit, a little too cheesy? I thought so, too. It’s all just horrible, it’s horrible, you’re horrible, and I’m just a fat piece of lard, sitting here, confessing my love to moveable type, computer screen and Microsoft word.

I love you. Hear me. Listen to me. Please don’t laugh at me.