his+mine.i won't let you go.
someday i'll write all about you and i and pretend it was a tragic romance with a lost fairytale ending. but that wasn't how it really happened.
i loved you in some way. i won't say you belong with me, because we both know that would be lying. even so, you don't belong with her either. don't fool yourself. i picked you because you were a lost little boy who wanted to grow up too quickly. that's what they call premature aging, don't you know? it's not your time yet. so why don't you just lie down and breathe the night sky while you can? but you were just a boy. a boy with golden hair, darkened by pitiful sins and bleached skin from all that alcohol you ingested. you were one with ice blue eyes, eyes that had a glacier-like surface. i only scratched a layer of it, but we both know that it would crack and shatter sooner or later.
i was, and still am, a scared little girl. i was lost in my dreams. so were you. instead of finding one another, i thought we could
sometimes surgeons like to kid
Sometimes I cannot sleep.
Earthquakes burrow into sheet fibres,
knees meet the radiator, the chunks clunk
then chip away, like the roller coaster thoughts
that spin around the room.
My head smacks pillows, and I remember
all the faces I scanned today,
up/down; they sighed boredom --
and had eyeballs where mattresses should be.
Fingertips feel sore, they say sorry
for touching you. I only wanted to see
what your heart felt like on the inside
but these hands did not belong
blood-drenched in you. Right then I decided --
I will never go to the dentist ever again.
He compliments my oral hygiene
as he asks me to open wide. It makes me sick
to bear my teeth like coffee cups to the world.
My spit embarrasses me, reminds me
of all the words caught inside my palate
that I could not say.
I had a dream last night. God came to me and said
'eleven thirty and something
will happen'. He showed me you in my room
like it was October, apple blossoms were by the window
and white strips down th
You Poor ThingI am sorry for your skeleton,
the way you carry yourself when you walk into a room
like your arms are tied and your mouth is empty and you've been
kept prisoner for a year, waiting for a bird to arrive
at your window. Your eyes are full and I spread my hands and say this;
sorry, like a man abandoning his lover in a cloud of dust. I am sorry for
your eyes, resentful like a North American river.
Sorry, for everything, for your breasts and womanhood.
You are standing on the edge of eighteen
relunctant and awkward; you do not want
to spread your legs wide and let the world drop its' pants
to fuck you. You are standing on the edge of something
looking afraid and saying no,
I don't want any spaghetti. I'm not hungry.
I'm hurting and horrible the way that a person feels
when they shatter the shell of a snail by
accident. I cannot say sorry
enough for your hands, scrabbling at the surface
of a wooden panel unheard, clawing at one another
like you're putting a deer in the headlights
autumn in englandi wouldn't take up
much of your time,
i wouldn't dare;
just a quick cup of
coffee or tea
and a drag on an
and i'll evaporate
with its smoke
i will be your evanescent steam
a quiet opening of a letter-
here is the red leaf i pressed for you
now three autumns past,
the trembling black ink quavering
over ocean lines and paper
i will ask you
how is your life now,
and how high were you last night.
how is your girlfriend,
you didn't tell me about her
but i know,
and did you know,
you changed your number
and didn't tell me
well you did
and i can't reach you now and
it scares me
i'm training my eyes
on the blood i watch run down my arms
i'm cutting again
and this time it's deep
i guess i didn't tell you either-
what are tearsit is monday and i am trembling
in sadness and hunger and reminiscence
the moon is not out and the air is too cold.
it is here the line between you and him is blurred.
every hour you spend silent is another word from my pen,
pressed onto paper and equally of the cancerous loss of my
heart, and the uncomfortable absence of its stitches.
this is when i feel the ground fall from beneath my feet.
this is when i forget if i am looking (you) up or down,
if i am in love or in hate.
this is when i need you most, a solid set of arms
to steady myself as i am wrapped inside,
a body with a hot heart burning behind soft skin.
it is now that i can't remember that it hurts
more to never know than to know and be damned;
to hold my breath for three weeks in hopes that the
breath of your butterfly will come to me again
instead of the written resignment of
his beautiful sorrow.
here is where i look at you and see his eyes.
here is where i see his lips and find your jaw.
here is where i need
when one speaks to godone day, god asked me:
"little c, what on earth are you doing with your life?"
i had no reply for him.
i sat there, dumbfounded, staring at a big grey sky, speechless. i was talking to god, and i was speechless.
"i uh... i guess i'm waiting."
"and what could you possibly be waiting for?"
that was when i thought long and hard. what on earth could i possibly be waiting for? when i wake up every black monday, what is it i am waiting for? when i stare at the food on my mother's 9 year old plates and can't bring myself to touch it, what am i waiting for? when i stand outside in icicle weather just because, what the hell am i waiting for?
"i'm waiting for change." i said.
"change? what kind of change?" he answered.
"the amusement park kind of change."
god was quiet for a little while.
i thought i'd lost him.
"i'm not sure what you're trying to tell me, little c."
"what i am trying to say is that i am waiting for amusement park change. that unexpected change in direction th
closurebukowski once said that the best often die by their own hand -
but you, i think you died at the hand of this world,
in all of its cruelty and darkness
i can't help but wonder if you were scared,
if your hands shook when you fell from this world into the next
i'd like to think though, that you were calm in your dark, concrete haven
that you closed your eyes unafraid
i'd like to think that there is a god -
a gentle hand that wrapped itself around your tired body
and that you were truly happy, where ever it is he took you
but for some reason, i think you're a bird
you'd make a beautiful bird.
i hope that my words, when you scribbled them down
in fury, in desperation, in a numb void
gave you at least a bit of comfort -
made you feel, even for a split second,
i will remember you by the mornings we spent together in the sun,
outside the grey lockers, legs outstretched and warm
and the smile you used to give the world when things were,
tell me is there a Godi'm starting to question the existence of God
because all religion does is change His image.
as much as i deny it, you can ask
why do i capitalize his
never got the whole in love thing,
accepted the fact when they left
and didn't even look back
i thought it was human nature:
to walk away from something you
then i realized it was wrong
my world's crashing down
it's like the sky was just glass
it's always better to do something
that you'll regret
than never ever taking that chance
and losing a little more than a
mom was a writer in her early twenties.
she had long thick hair, bright big eyes
and a heart well sought-after
she wrote children's stories because they
made kids happy and making kids happy somehow
made her happy
she was independent, loud and proud
and a force to be reckoned with.
although she was a pretty thing herself,
she liked to bounce around too and
never settled for anything less
than shiny and new
i was 4 and i had everything