8 posts tagged “am viers”

wanted to email you love letters
and tell you how much I miss you
and how much you taught me,
but I remembered that you were in love and she
was a brunette and I really have no chance in competing with a brunette
because I don't have a real job still and I keep thinking maybe
I should grow up one day and stop writing poetry about how maybe
I loved you but I don't anymore and the only place I can say it is some obscure website on the Internet
because if I told anyone what would I say, but
'He scorned me and he taught me how to take all of the emotion out of love and
send it to my mother for Christmas because she needs it more than I do and that's what family does,
sometimes.'
No one ever tells me how they can't live without me via text message late at night
they just tell me that they want me to suck their cock speeding down the interstate with their
hands wrapped up in my hair or gripping my ass
telling me how beautiful I look
but you cant even see my face and I don't know why you compliment your toys--
they don't move, or see, or feel, or care anyhow.
And you taught me how to hate
but I've never hated you like you wanted me to
I hated that all these fairy tales I dreamed about were fairy tales and your face and words and blocking my email address and filing the restraining order reflected that maybe you didn't feel the same way as I did anymore
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of a text message to you, but I realize I deleted your phone number a long time ago, which is good because I'll never remember it anyhow because it never really was that important to you for me to keep in touch because you liked the way I fucked with heels on and how I used to talk dirty to you over the phone late at night, but you made me feel like I was 16 and I automatically resent saying so because
maybe you'll google me one day and i'll show up on a page next to an lolcats link and
you'll drink an americano with hazelnut in it because you just simply cant stand the taste of coffee, but you love coffee because that's the american dream and that's why you get americanos because one day you're going to be famous.
you wanted more than I did. i dont understand.

Years from now we will paraphrase our love
to ensure that raw emotion be boxed up and not felt again
in the detail that brings our bodies back to pillows that smell of lingering perfume
and dried flowers on the wall from rendezvous long erased.
Or perhaps I will never mention it again
except in impartial shoulder shrugging at the tables of friends who have never met you,
but remember enough pieces to illicit pain.

I called you my best friend once.
We ate together and shared stolen moments and missed nights of sleep and slept in the same bed with bare skin touching and wrote about each other--you made me cds.
Once, you insisted I read a book
and I loved it.
Then, you found something more interesting, we'll call it a roommate, a substance, an ex-girlfriend and I didn't hear from you, but such was the understanding of this and I didn't place any blame
Until you borrowed me a book one morning on re-entry into my life
and I detested even touching its pages.
We made love and lied
and I went away for a time
to fall in love with someone who said he knew me,
but I knew better and I forgot him too.

Months later you called me and asked me to lie in your bed and forget about him and lie about everything
so I did.
But I couldn't tell you I liked what I read, so we didn't talk about it.
You saw stars and collapsed on your pillow in blissful resolution.
From your pillow with your bedroom eyes and your soft lips you asked me never to leave your side again
and you opened the door and shoved me out
(she might be home soon).

A day ago you made a comment that made my whites red.
And I thought that perhaps you had never been my friend.
I knew.
So I told you the truth and asked you to go away nearly thinking I didn't mean it
until you said something fouler than I care to share
and that I should keep the fucking book.

In truth, dear, you have poor taste,
but mine is poorer.

Tuesday is best described by the taste of old pavement after it rains.
A million different bare feet, cigarette ashes, puddles of saliva pool onto my patio and stain the earth in thick, syrupy spirals.
Not a soul stops to gaze sideways at these reminders of yesterday,
As its Tuesday and not honestly raining--
It never rains on Tuesday.

Today, I sent a message to someone I had grown to forget,
I forget the why, but I remember the where,
Purple polish coating my fingers, I said,
I have never been so lonely or useless.
That thought was discounted quite immediately and replaced with past nights spent on the same pillow whispering in malice that love was but a weapon.
We never destroyed the world like you said we would
And I’m here alone having never reciprocated your love.

Wednesday, you begged be to come back. Wednesday you will always call your one great regret and we put it in a plastic bag in the freezer to forget.
I never blamed you and we knew your fault always.
Yet the regret sits in the freezer next to the roast I’ll never make for you.
Perhaps she will.

Thursday, I slept. I imagine the entire world got on fine without me..

When I woke, it was Saturday; I don’t know what became of Friday.
I know a year has past. I know this is metaphor.
You kissed me on a beach and told me you loved me.
Then, you replaced me with someone with a louder laugh and less to say.
You always said I was too good for you.

Sunday, was quiet. I went to my mother’s and she told me to leave you. Your face keeps changing when I turn my back. You are never the same as when I first met you.
One day, some storybook character will leap out of my pages and I won’t take notice.
Dutifully, I will describe this place, but I will not love it.

Monday I didn’t move. I did not breathe for fear I would make tears in the air.
I hibernate and he moves over me in the dark.
The window opens and I exhale.

Tuesday creeps around the corner and laughs at me. How does it run out so quickly?

I don't have your real email address or the keys to your heart/head and you won't let me out so I keep locking myself in when you leave and I don't know what to do about your selfdefeating habits and I can't tell you about mine because you might hate me and know that you could hurt me so easily so I just sit here and make you hate me and not bother telling you that if you hurt yourself I'm never going to talk to you again because I can't lose another friend and you're more than that to me but I can't tell you that yet because I might lose you and then you would know that you hurt me and that might weigh heavier but I doubt you care so maybe if I say everything in one big long run on sentence you might get bored and stop reading and never know this ache.
And every email I get, I reply to like hate mail because I'm in love with you and they might never know that, but certainly you never will and that frustrates and infuriates me but I'll never do anything about it because I'm certainly not that motivated even though I'm drinking my hot tea faster than I care to and being manic about washing my face and smelling nice and putting my hair up so you can see my neck and I'm in love with you and I want you to leave so I don't have to worry about you reciprocating because I know you're not going to be around long enough to do that because no one ever is.
If you expect things to get easier, they wont.
This isn't about you.

I keep thinking that maybe if I post my work
on some website that isn't a myspace blog
or some other social blogging site,
maybe someone will notice me
and say
you know what? this girl's pretty neat. we should show other people and they should like it more than we do.
because it would feed my ego.
but, honestly, I'm worthless
and I can't write.
And that's why I put all my poetry in moleskin journals I bought at Border's
and on the Internet so that I can stalk people and tell them to read my poetry and tell me they love me and like my hair and the picture I have of my boobs as my default representation of self
that's when I decided I should get drunk.
And then I thought,
Oh, YOU SHOULD GET A JOB
(but it doesn't matter right now--
I only get these crazy ideas when I'm drunk or my mom's telling me how worthless this current state of existence is)
Today was the day that I woke up and everything was okay
and then it turned nine and I thought about getting a beer and being drunk before noon
and talking to the dog about how I need more conditioner
because I horde it but it costs too much
we took a nap the rest of the day
and mom woke me up screaming about staying up late
but you dont stay up late when you hate yourself
you go to bed and you sleep
and you wake up and you sleep
and you stay awake.
This nonsense circulates
and it keeps coming up because it courses through my veins and sometimes when I dream I think my heart transcribes these delusions to blood and I have delusions in my blood and my heart makes new delusions and I tell every boy I date that I love them because its in my blood, but I really don't, I just like the way it rolls off my tongue.
And my horoscope keeps telling me that I'm a fatalist,  and I drink too much water
and I don't eat cantelope because I'm not a carnivore.
In the back of the room, I hold my legs to my chest for an instant and scream,
I'm not dead, you motherfuckers
but no one hears me because I don't scream, in fact, I don't even put my legs on my chest, I lied,
but I think I had oral sex with a tube of lipstick last night at the bar and now I feel dirty
but i'm almost certain at least one person asked me to go home with them and I couldn't really argue because I walked outside and lost my balance and the sky turned purple and I realized I had drank too much vodka like water, but I really like it because it doesn't burn my nose, throat, or tongue unless I puke it up and often I wipe my mouth with my sleeve afterwards or sometimes some toilet paper if there is any, but most often times at bars, there isn't any toilet paper because women stuff their bras with it and you cant ask the stall next to you for toilet paper because then you'll get AIDS and have to explain to your boyfriend why you can't have sex with him and why you're in love with someone else and why you don't believe in love because you're a scientologist. but he'll understand because you just really aren't as pretty as you thought you were.
I thought about taking pictures with my guinness can and posting them on myspace because that's what girls my age do, they take pictures with inanimate objects and try to pick up predators with them.
I like the taste of predators. Sometimes I have them for breakfast. I especially like how they curb the taste of marmalade because I never liked marmalade before I had a predator. One day I was sitting at my desk writing bad poetry and eating my first predator and I said,
this would really taste good with orange peel and sugar and goo
and that was the last time I had a predator without marmalade.
And that's when I remembered I couldn't write and I needed another beer.
I often hear confessions from men when they get drunk. They tell me the most ridiculous things. I often think its probably because I'm Catholic and they assume that I'm so used to confessions that I probably won't mind, but I was never confirmed and I really don't care about people so it honestly seems moot to me. One day, perhaps, I'll interrupt and say so.
I think everyone is ignoring me via text message, but its nearly midnight and who wants to hear me confess things? I'm just as bad. Maybe I'll kill myself and text message them and tell them all that I killed myself and see who responds but I bet no one will.
I think I'm going to drown myself in the swimming pool,
but I've just remembered its closed and locked with a big sign that says WARNING
oh well, i guess i'll just sleep.

no sin was committed here
and we are absolved of any misdeed--
in that we are entirely pure extractions of ourselves.
escaping through the ventilation
as the gaseous forms of ourselves
and I disperse and intermingle with each molecule
juxtapose these atoms I claim as my own
(maybe yours).
Where does my flesh stop being mine and continue as the universe that surrounds me?;
Do I trail a tail of particles behind me when I rundancewalkswimbreathefuckleave?
I imagine the answers to all the questions that surface at the most inconvenient of times
are written on the pillows I leave covered in my perfume on your bed
or on your lips waking from a dream to reciprocate a long expired kiss.
But I have no proof.
I'm never there to wake in a room I am not in,
or experience a kiss I am not directly present for.
We should look into metaphysics of it
because you are so far away
from this place
(or maybe you think me far from you,
but I often compare by point of origination)
And I'd see you more often were my lips not so busy
talking and kissing and hurting and teasing
but I never say much, and I hardly reciprocate, and I mean it, and I don't
so the logistics of things are especially hard to piece together
especially because my head is on sideways and my nights begin with vowels and end with consonants,
but who can blame me?
The cure makes me dizzy and not so much myself.
What happens these pieces of me when the me is not present?
What happens to me?
Not here anymore.
Where are you?
Not here where I am,
(and I've not clue where that is),
but I hope you will be there when I get back;
if I get back, I hope you are there.

i'll kiss you before i go
so you'll never miss a day
and the instant my lips hit yours
you'll know
because i can't just bring my sleeping bag to the field
dreaming until my eyes open
and the sky fades to glow
(or fails to glow-as a direct result of the forecast)
i'll never kiss you
and find myself in this condition always
melting into this quiet, unmoving wax form that is me
(I imagine myself thinner and less opague)
This morning I woke and the sky was already filled with the light of day
perhaps, when i sleep longer and longer into waking hours
and my nights bleed into time I should be sleeping,
I grow old, dry, small, ineffective

my charms are all I have
(rancid shell and spells of me)
I imagine her and her and her in your arms
And I know you don't care,
and I don't mind,
but you tell me you do
so sometimes I let myself believe
because I like how heartbroken I feel when I rouse from my low point
to somewhere caved in.
I let myself fall into a state of uselessness
Drawn out and filled in
(I only love you to love you,
these habits of bored women
rage on in the fashion of doldrums
and we wait like shells as homes for the hosts we
sorely accept so that we can move and travel until
they grow and we're discarded)

I will not bother making this real today.
What good would it do?
If you don't care and I don't care
and you don't care,
what good?
But you said,
Oh, maybe you'll see me
and I fear that, indeed, all does matter,
but I cant say
(I intend on excluding)
You, sir, are a liar,
and I love you.
I will wait
(and wait and wait and wait)
And see you in the next one.
These trains are always so late.
I'm still here.

crisp, solid wall of morning and speeding 'round the corner
and out through the empty blanket of four am--
predawn coats the sky with the same number of stars as
the ejaculation of dusk
 the sun falls from the heavens arching his back towards the earth
and sinking, breathless, into a bed it would rise from
would the earth, indeed, claim him hers--
(and perhaps, one day, she might
accept this as no ephemeral affair
and refrain from sending the glistening body of light
back to the bed he belongs to)
such an ends and a decay this sunset is,
and the humidity of the encounter takes hold of her
cooling body as his warmth leaves
and her trees leave into spring
or spring into leave, however is the preferred method
and the wet season comes and he is gone.
[...]

THIS IS SO FUCKING AWKWARD RIGHT NOW. I HATE IT MORE AND MORE AND MORE...(but i like the concept)
things to consider this week:
"no sin was committed here...no deed will undo itself. we are absolved of any misdeed....we are pure."
lie. a lot.
watch more robot chicken.
email self hikikomori style letters.
drink more water