Whenever say stigmata, I think of a picture I want to exist. Someone screaming flowers, bleeding them from thier hands.
“you are mine to do with as you wish”
damn fingers!
*grabs them*
Brain?
check
sunday is slow + it crawls on inane fingers and toes
*quick cut image of paint and sweat*
You are just never going to win.
I’ve gotten older. Sharp, sharp and sharper. Twist you like wire to make a silver necklace to drape upon a naked belly.
:then the snap of mountains:
I had a wonderful thought today walking home. “I hope that when this ends, and he leaves again, or I leave, or we demolish in some quarrel. I want there to be some place that hurts to walk by”
like the very earth under your feet
It made me smile
I have a table, where we sat and you asked me a question. I have every single game of pool and billiards. There is a bar that’s dead and gone and a bench next to a terrible coffeeshop. The suns painted on your cousins mantle, near the end. The fact that I don’t have a black pillow anymore. There was a canoe outside Bretts new apartment, and it was in the dark. Skin like paper, love. Pale and willing to be written on.
“smoke and mirrors” the other day and I couldn’t stop laughing and couldn’t tell anyone why
I can so beat you at this one. Which girl do you think Brett ended up with the night we left them in the apartment next to the skytrain?
red nailpolish “I’m an artist – I can work a brush”
Brett was an odd one to hang out with – like sort of a window into a Nice world. Joe Average, wierd for his normalancy
Voted most likely to get married with 2.5 children. Why wasn’t he living in Kits?
and Nat? my portait of him? I dunno – empty angel playing with pencils maybe. Pretty, pointless, and a lack of someone
I felt something die when it hit me. No one knew me. Or anything in my head or anything about me before 2000
I think I’m lucky I don’t believe in angst
It’s like the Enola Gay of arguement
I think I may have just evened the use of words. I may not be a writer, but you make pictures with pictures so stab me in the dark with memories, why don’t you?
I’ve got the crumpled paper in my head, the one with phonenumbers, the moments, the memories. You’ll just have to trail those words past me, and catch me like a kitten.
chrome and glass and the songs we played on the jukebox
I can breathe through the years far far better than most, darling. I don’t know about you, but I remember and there’s no effort. It’s all dead and alive all at once and there, at hand
My pity though, it’s all still capture images. snippets of film, unwinding. Doors that opened into the room, with the bed on the right hand corner. Coal Minors Daughter, and a metal bowl because we didn’t have music. You said your name coming back into bed, because I’d been restless in my sleep, and you didn’t want to wake me, except we were on the couch, and I’d been watching you paint a Five onto canvas, in a red circle. I asked why the five and, “maybe, if you get to know me better, you’ll find out” and I still dont’ know. But the shirt you had on had a little smear of red paint. I know that like waiting for you at a busstop in the dark.
I can almost imagine you sitting and sketching for me in a coffeeshop, doing this in pictures. Whatever you give me is more than I expected.
I felt that. Like a catholic part of my brain has decided that I only ever made someone happy so I could take thier joy
It’s untrue, of course, but I can still taste it as I eat it.
you’re catching my breath in those fingers
Blood and breath and tongue and bone, darling. the body and heart that pumps it. And the lungs the bellow it? the tongue that shapes the bellow, the rage that heats that air
don’t tempt me