Tag: prose

ever want something to be fiction?

I went looking for you. People get lost in the darkness of a nightclub easier than they get lost on the street. Everything is badly lit to make the patrons look better, it’s just the way it is. I found you at one end, on the platform above the dancefloor, up four steps. Your back was turned from me, as usual, and I planned on sliding behind you and holding you to me in the darkness. Your face was lit by a cell phone screen, the most charming thing I’d seen all day. I was behind the row of you, walking up barefoot, feeling the scuffs in the floor made by a thousand slutty high-heels. Next to you was a friend of ours, he was laughing with a woman I wasn’t sure I knew. My form became a denial, an uncertainty. Our friend, he saw me and laughed, pulling me to his side. Who is that? I should not have asked. Everything was confirmed. I shrugged off his arm as politely as I knew and walked fast away. I just barely made it to the ladies room. I slammed open a stall door and collapsed to the floor unable to breathe, choking on illness. Somebody knocked on the wood panel behind me, asked if I was alright. I said I had too much drink. I lost everything down to dry heaves. My throat burned.

Outside I sat alone in the hallway. I was missing for over an hour. You never came to find me. You were content to say hello when I arrived then ignore me until it was time for you to leave. This is normal, however, in spite of everything I want to scream for. I couldn’t make the nausea go away. I can’t make you not neglect me. I needed to leave but it would have been rude. So many friends were there, dancing together, making a nice evening. When you came to leave me, the same as every other time I’ve ever seen you, I couldn’t look at you. I should have moved when you spotted me. Slipped away while you got caught in the fishnet crowd. I wanted to hit you. Instead I bowed my head and waited for you to come. I wanted a reason to forgive you, to forgive myself for loving you. I almost slapped you, when you tried to touch me as if I meant something, as if you weren’t lying through your teeth again. You lied to me, you lied to her. You’re happy making whores out of all of us. I almost slapped you, I almost smashed my glass into your beautiful face.

there’s steel

So this is the future. It’s a self replicating virus, everything is going to be better just over the horizon. This is the future, my hands here, on yours, and my eyes lucent from crying. I remember this, every day it wore at me, every day it caught my throat, pacing back and forth, counting the minutes in between until I could find my flying car.

My fingers are longer now, I can feel it. I’m changing every day, cells replicating something with a slightly different chemical balance. This web of veins and neurons, cycling through a thousand things we said to each other.

This is the future, this is learning. It’s bitter like the coffee in the morning that you required before you put your clothes on. Red pants or the open front house-coat I gave you for the last Valentines we ever had, our first. I remember tomorrow already, I know it backward, every minute flowing from me. This time it’s a prison, because I can feel when my smile’s going to crack.

As I grow older, the concept of meaning something has been pressed to me more and over, little sticky pieces of paper that scream at me that I don’t mean anything yet, that there must be something more, that these people with fire in their eyes, they know the plan, they can see, and I am not one of them. I have no creative soul to touch, I can only support these angels above me who fly with visions, who know how to put objects together and create. This is the future, they make it, not me.

Then this happens. I wake up and want to take my clothes off. I want to walk down every crowded street and silently shout a misery wider than a sky can hold. I want to let the sun touch my skin to flame and tell people to make something, to stop playing house and try to find out what they need. I want electricity to crackle off of me to spark wonder in the worlds jaded eyes, because if this can happen to me, it can happen to you.

foot in mouth disease

I don’t know who reads this, but I would like to pretend to myself, just for now, that you are one of them.

I can barely write prose, but I seem to try. I can’t write fiction, but I can write hypotheticals. Might happens are different. There’s places in between places. I can see you on this screen, I touch it and my fingers leave marks on the glass. It’s a poor mans sunshine, but it’s what I have. My life is beginning, my options open in a way I won’t have later. I’m an arrogant bitch just for putting this here.

This is a dare.

It makes me always happy to be reminded that everyone is human. Our heroes are fools, our scientists go grocery shopping like everyone else. Motivations are complex or simple but always personal. Shiny metal buildings organically curving above me and I thought of you. Again, at two degrees away from the exhibits. Stopped suddenly, I didn’t laugh when I realized what I was doing. Instead I held it. Looked at the shape of my thoughts. Small and round but heavy in my mind. A lump of etched silver, showing parts of the my motivation I rarely think of and never visit. Something has shifted.

Stupid and brave may be synonymous.

The world is dark. Shadows lengthened to eat my room, to leave me lit only by my computer. Interestingly, I am left knowing that danger is also a personal thing. Webs woven of the strangest politics are the ones we encounter when desire is involved. Desire of any sort. Want versus need versus what we think. We think too much and that’s what makes us human. Pieces here and there of animalism break through and we get murders and violent crimes. Thinking too much I agree with. I’m very, very good at saying No. My eyes may close, but I can still see the upcoming drop. Somehow, I have taken control but am still moving, one careful step in front of the other, closer to the cliffside. I can’t see the ground, but past this, the undiscovered country is waiting. I don’t know if this is a push, a leap or an accidental fall.

There is wind.

Asleep, My Love


I dream of your hands. Licking your fingers and palms, smoothness gliding inside of me, teasing. I dream of you, with me breathing. Your hardness against my softness; your solidity immersed in my fluid. Softly, softly, rocking together. Dappled sunlight dreaming of you golden. Cannot remember you never not knowing me. Inside. Tasting your strawberry tongue, your cherry lips and your caramel words. Sighing. Love you so much. Needing. Colour flashing through my closed eyes to blind you with their resonance – quicksilver. Me, moon, transmuting your brilliance to create my own soft light, like blood. Emerald shouting beauty for me alone – halos – your eyes – ringed with gold. Drowning.