A few more lines taken, and now a few more written? “I’ve got flower and powder. Both are fire”, he says. “O.K, I’ll take the latter. I have a bill for you”. And…
A few more lines taken, and now a few more written?
“I’ve got flower and powder. Both are fire”, he says.
“O.K, I’ll take the latter. I have a bill for you”.
And that was that. He showed up, we sat on my porch. He smoked a blunt while I rocked in my chair. This is the second time I’ve seen him, after meeting my new “him”. It doesn’t matter to me anymore if he knows. He tries a few of his manipulative lines.
“So, I bet you two will have fun tonight” he probes, trying to get confirmation of my solidarity or guilt. Who knows.
He looks so much different now. Both to the human eye, but more importantly through my eyes. He’s lost so much weight as a vegetarian . Always maintaining his sculptured build that he was blessed with, but he must be less than 140 pounds now. He’s grown out his thick black hair, and let his beard take over, what I know to be a baby face, underneath. He’s always well dressed in his Miami inspired attire, but he has white beaters on. No limited addition, stand in line for 3 hours, prestine “kicks”.
He spends time looking down at his phone, and I stare at him. There will always be that faint attraction. The nostalgia of when we were partners in crime. Living a crazy life of making money, exploring and critiquing every restaurant and bar, then coming home to indulge in other things. Painful, but pleasureful things. Most of which I don’t remember. . .
He looks up, and I’m already back to rocking in my chair.
I woke up this morning next to him, the sun just starting to filter into his room. His back was towards me, my body pressed, and slightly stuck to his skin from the humidity. I smiled to myself as my left hand began to trace the light house on his back.
An art piece that wasn’t finished, just an outline with visible broken lines and novice shading. He told me once,
“People place too much importance on tattoos. I just go for it, and don’t look back”.
I’ve always envied his free spirited, carelessness. His piercings, gauges, body mods, and works of art. Some in progress, some complete. . Beautiful in their own imperfections of his passions.
The Joker. Batman. Scenes from The Nightmare Before Christmas. A giant eagle grasping a pot leaf and a bottle of bourbon spread across his chest. And of course, the unfinished light house.
I slept the majority of the day, attempting to evade the ever growing list of responsibilities. “Adulting”, my best friend would call it. I think I am a professional procrastinator, but without the typical underlying stress.
Now, I’m three lines deep – motivated to write, chain smoking, while sweat beads on my skin. I love this porch. . . I can feel my heart beat ever so faintly increasing as it starts to kick in. The mania has me thinking about that light house, tempted to throw on some clothes and go. Maybe get an imperfect portrayal of one of my passions branded on my skin.
I like the challenge. I want to figure him out and I can’t. Maybe it’s the mystery, maybe it’s the need for validation.
Perhaps in some fucked up way it’s revengeful?
Never before have I been so lost in my own convictions.
Two can play at this game
I get the right to privacy. So sure, have your right to keep presents, or be giving money to so and so that you don’t want your significant other to know about or porn. Or whatever
But there is no communication with someone else in which that relationship needs to be private from someone who you have made a vow with.
Maybe I am blowing this out of proportion but I just feel like it’s amazing to me that you are more concerned with getting drunk/going out than actually spending 5 minutes to make sure I’m ok. Like holy shit, don’t pretend like you care, if you don’t. Not to mention, will any of those people take time and money out of their lives to visit you in jail? Then why the fuck is it so important to blow off the one person who would see you, for the sake of a few hours of drunkeness with people who in reality won’t come through in the long run. Makes me feel shitty, and just reinforces my security in the fact that I’m glad I’m not still with you
Three guys in 24 hours…there must be something wrong with me.
Correction – 16 hours.
Jack, Andy, Morgan *
*names have been changed
I went digging in my attic today specifically looking for all my old diaries and journals. I found two huge boxes filled with pieces of my past. I’ll admit, it bothers me that I can’t remember any of it. The pictures, the names, the memories, the art…none of it. The following is a collection of what I believe to be poetry that I wrote between the ages of 10 and 16. Also – as with all my posts, I do not edit anything. I replicate exactly how I wrote it so many years ago.
Let’s get this over with,
kiss my ass,
all I am to you,
is toxic gas,
slowly killing you,
IM FUCKING CRAZY!!
Pointless are the days,
where I was innocent,
I’m a slut now,
at least I feel I am.
You love me…
I still wonder how.
IM FUCKING CRAZY!!
No one can handle me,
they’ve all tried,
I’ve seen them stumble.
Last one died.
Don’t let it happen to you,
please, I beg…
I care enough for you
IM FUCKING CRAZY!!
Leave me here,
so I can watch,
men come and go,
to and fro.
Hiding from the fear – your voice so near…
IM FUCKING CRAZY!!!!!!!
Tears are shed,
from what was said,
as the minutes filled with sorrow
You held me tight,
that special night,
and told me of the ‘morrow
It was good-bye,
for he and I,
I knew he had to go
He moved away,
and still today,
Oh, I love him so
I married myself today
to wake up with myself each morning,
to know I am always here,
I am friend and foe to my own existence,
to be rid of myself,
would be to divorce
Push me out of my nest, my dear
I must struggle, and fly on my own
these chains are holding me so tightly, my dear
I must dance and twirl alone
You say you want the best for me
And I know that must be true
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me
Yes, I love you too