The wool is braided thickly
In bands across the coldness of flesh
But still...
The veil around the black
And soulless spark of your eyes
Turns my ears pink nails blue flesh white
Unbinds the braids
Discards the Wool...
Thursday, November 4, 1999
Friday, October 29, 1999
The Beast that I Have Birthed
On the LIRR, heading home with a hacking cough and my B and I still don't think I've completely recovered from the other night. (The air in here stings!)
I don't know why or how that killed me, but it did. That he regrets parts of me... I felt haunted and oppressed and filthy, but a strange part of my wanted to laugh wildly and run out and do it all again... with breath scented of lemon drops and cloves, blackness smudged in the corners of my eyes, layers of glitter and glass on my lips and arms bound around my waist...
But I suppressed that part of me-- that voice-- and in doing so, shut down all of my strength and buried her. And she seems to be so deeply buried that I couldn't even summon her when I needed to... and that scares me.
In the Heights... and I feigned a coolness which turned form ice to heat in the salt on my cheeks. And then there was nothing-- a depth of emptiness that I have never before experienced and hope I never will again. And I could see him there-- pounding against the glass-- his voice spreading out thinly into thousands of waves. Yellow and red layers danced in stars of verticality and then horizontally, all reflecting his shining black pupils.
And I took nothing.
All of it was sent shooting off the glass of my eyes, skimming rocks across the water. And the even larger lights blinking in my eyes like amber pools, slashed with grates and streaks of taxi cabs, blue uniforms, rifles pointed, softly quivering lower eyelids and all of it swimming just beyond me.
And somehow, the dripping stopped and it ended, although I'm not sure where or when.
And yesterday-- when he called me his "clean, pure, princess" and I am riddled with guilt and scabbing.
I cried this morning over nothing and I feel myself growing more and more dependent on his words-- the old reflexes hammering against their coffin lids with their tiny ancient clawed fists-- and although I have buried them, I wonder if they are dead. (And still, this cough persists.)
And he is writing about me... what he has learned... and he loves me more with each word. But it scares me at the same time... that he will discover something more that I know myself, or that he will create a record and create a living demon out of that horror... give life and breath to the beast that I have birthed and having done so, am ready to slaughter.
I suppose that there is always some measure of fear that comes with trust... but I have always made so many mistakes in trusting before...
And that makes me think of AIR7. As much as he was selfish and insensitive and insecure and cruel, he still has the ability to hurt me greatly, or at least make things difficult for me with the information that he has. But he hasn't, and so part of me wonders if he still loves me... or if it isn't worth the time it would take in his thoughts. And the fact that I still care really bothers me...
VJ said yesterday that we should hang out with him again, and I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. I stumbled for a response. Fuck him for ever making me still think of him at all!
And so, I am fearful and unresolved, guilt-ridden and self-loathing, but blessed with the unbearable bliss of being his "clean, pure princess." A baby girl. And although my staved heart springs to life at such a thought, part of me admonishes it to sit still and fast-- endure its hunger.
(And I seem to find the happiness I seek... when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.)
Pink and red roses are my cheeks and I cringe at their fullness and the dark shadows under the curves.
God, I am tired! His head rests heavy and gentle on my shoulder and I think that maybe I will rest my eyes too.
I will rest my eyes too...
I don't know why or how that killed me, but it did. That he regrets parts of me... I felt haunted and oppressed and filthy, but a strange part of my wanted to laugh wildly and run out and do it all again... with breath scented of lemon drops and cloves, blackness smudged in the corners of my eyes, layers of glitter and glass on my lips and arms bound around my waist...
But I suppressed that part of me-- that voice-- and in doing so, shut down all of my strength and buried her. And she seems to be so deeply buried that I couldn't even summon her when I needed to... and that scares me.
In the Heights... and I feigned a coolness which turned form ice to heat in the salt on my cheeks. And then there was nothing-- a depth of emptiness that I have never before experienced and hope I never will again. And I could see him there-- pounding against the glass-- his voice spreading out thinly into thousands of waves. Yellow and red layers danced in stars of verticality and then horizontally, all reflecting his shining black pupils.
And I took nothing.
All of it was sent shooting off the glass of my eyes, skimming rocks across the water. And the even larger lights blinking in my eyes like amber pools, slashed with grates and streaks of taxi cabs, blue uniforms, rifles pointed, softly quivering lower eyelids and all of it swimming just beyond me.
And somehow, the dripping stopped and it ended, although I'm not sure where or when.
And yesterday-- when he called me his "clean, pure, princess" and I am riddled with guilt and scabbing.
I cried this morning over nothing and I feel myself growing more and more dependent on his words-- the old reflexes hammering against their coffin lids with their tiny ancient clawed fists-- and although I have buried them, I wonder if they are dead. (And still, this cough persists.)
And he is writing about me... what he has learned... and he loves me more with each word. But it scares me at the same time... that he will discover something more that I know myself, or that he will create a record and create a living demon out of that horror... give life and breath to the beast that I have birthed and having done so, am ready to slaughter.
I suppose that there is always some measure of fear that comes with trust... but I have always made so many mistakes in trusting before...
And that makes me think of AIR7. As much as he was selfish and insensitive and insecure and cruel, he still has the ability to hurt me greatly, or at least make things difficult for me with the information that he has. But he hasn't, and so part of me wonders if he still loves me... or if it isn't worth the time it would take in his thoughts. And the fact that I still care really bothers me...
VJ said yesterday that we should hang out with him again, and I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. I stumbled for a response. Fuck him for ever making me still think of him at all!
And so, I am fearful and unresolved, guilt-ridden and self-loathing, but blessed with the unbearable bliss of being his "clean, pure princess." A baby girl. And although my staved heart springs to life at such a thought, part of me admonishes it to sit still and fast-- endure its hunger.
(And I seem to find the happiness I seek... when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.)
Pink and red roses are my cheeks and I cringe at their fullness and the dark shadows under the curves.
God, I am tired! His head rests heavy and gentle on my shoulder and I think that maybe I will rest my eyes too.
I will rest my eyes too...
Sunday, October 10, 1999
Notre Dame Morning
Happy three months!
Everything is sitting so still this morning, the gray electric drops sparking wet back off the sidewalk and inside with the warm wooden panels and sandy peach-tiled floors. I don't even know the name of this place...
My heart slightly jumps and my nerves make me sigh as I wait, against the traffic, for 11:15. Another half an hour.
B is singing in church today and KW may come meet us. She said she bumped into AIR7 and he gave her his number.
"Call me any time," he said.
And it scares me. And i wonder how he will exact his revenge.
This food lumps in my stomach and I wonder why I am so endlessly weak and there is no answer... Except to try not to think about it...
B said that Matt A. is coming next weekend and might need to sleep in my room and I wonder if that means that I need to lock up the "chest of sin."
And I am worried about my stepfather and I wonder why. My mom doesn't even want to try. And I brace myself against that choke and think of sparkling rivers laced with the soft white dotted sails of so many dreams like mine and I try not to think about it...
There is nothing left to write and nothing left to mourn, only things to kiss and dream into the eyes of another. And God, I love him so much!
I told Aunt N. that I would write a poem today for Jol. It's an anti-smoking thing with the theme "Be Smart, Don't Start." I need to think of an angle...
I wonder if I should start worrying about midterms and then I know I should worry about getting my chromatic done and I wonder what lullabies I can sing.
I try to correct my handwriting to make it beautiful.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
Everything is sitting so still this morning, the gray electric drops sparking wet back off the sidewalk and inside with the warm wooden panels and sandy peach-tiled floors. I don't even know the name of this place...
My heart slightly jumps and my nerves make me sigh as I wait, against the traffic, for 11:15. Another half an hour.
B is singing in church today and KW may come meet us. She said she bumped into AIR7 and he gave her his number.
"Call me any time," he said.
And it scares me. And i wonder how he will exact his revenge.
This food lumps in my stomach and I wonder why I am so endlessly weak and there is no answer... Except to try not to think about it...
B said that Matt A. is coming next weekend and might need to sleep in my room and I wonder if that means that I need to lock up the "chest of sin."
And I am worried about my stepfather and I wonder why. My mom doesn't even want to try. And I brace myself against that choke and think of sparkling rivers laced with the soft white dotted sails of so many dreams like mine and I try not to think about it...
There is nothing left to write and nothing left to mourn, only things to kiss and dream into the eyes of another. And God, I love him so much!
I told Aunt N. that I would write a poem today for Jol. It's an anti-smoking thing with the theme "Be Smart, Don't Start." I need to think of an angle...
I wonder if I should start worrying about midterms and then I know I should worry about getting my chromatic done and I wonder what lullabies I can sing.
I try to correct my handwriting to make it beautiful.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
Friday, September 24, 1999
Wrong on the Horizon
Perhaps the words have not come in so long because there has been that feeling of "drive"... that presence of purpose (albeit empty) of power on the mirror and nights to be filled with sweat in lieu of song.
But again, here, under crashing chords that only serve to mute the cacophony that has been rumbling endlessly since last night.
And I search the room now with an eagle's eye, wondering who and carving her presence into my heart, inching out the small part of myself that I have gained back and then marvelling and my insecurity and self-inflicted injury.
And it seemed so appropriate for a new page, but not now when I feel endlessly wrapped in a time warp...
The swallow of the past few years without the power...
Last night I felt as if I were drifting-- right out existence and severed from the cool mint of the pavement and sucked away from the density of the air and millions of miles away from the smelly sets of subway eyes that I used to stare into as if they were my own... .I owned them. And now... with a broken heart and an aching head and all of the pain, but in a much different way.
How my iced fingers are grasped, but they still fall... and I wonder why.
How could I have been so wrong about the horizon and why; when freedom fails, am I consumed by what I thought could die... I don't know...
I should let it all go, though... I know... Things are good and I can't forget it!
But again, here, under crashing chords that only serve to mute the cacophony that has been rumbling endlessly since last night.
And I search the room now with an eagle's eye, wondering who and carving her presence into my heart, inching out the small part of myself that I have gained back and then marvelling and my insecurity and self-inflicted injury.
And it seemed so appropriate for a new page, but not now when I feel endlessly wrapped in a time warp...
The swallow of the past few years without the power...
Last night I felt as if I were drifting-- right out existence and severed from the cool mint of the pavement and sucked away from the density of the air and millions of miles away from the smelly sets of subway eyes that I used to stare into as if they were my own... .I owned them. And now... with a broken heart and an aching head and all of the pain, but in a much different way.
How my iced fingers are grasped, but they still fall... and I wonder why.
How could I have been so wrong about the horizon and why; when freedom fails, am I consumed by what I thought could die... I don't know...
I should let it all go, though... I know... Things are good and I can't forget it!
Monday, August 2, 1999
Unwanted
It is morning now (8:37) and not much has changed... My eyes are strained against the distance of my escaped sleep and he doesn't want me. I think that I am done here.
I kind of wish that I could sleep, though. It would make the day much easier today and my eyes wouldn't sting so fucking much...
Maybe I should try to get the last hour before the alarm...
I kind of wish that I could sleep, though. It would make the day much easier today and my eyes wouldn't sting so fucking much...
Maybe I should try to get the last hour before the alarm...
Sunday, August 1, 1999
Fucking Pathetic
Inside golden bends that stick to themselves, softly falling ribs. And the leaves from the column tops strain their necks, bending towards the coolness and away from the stone. (Her billowing blue sash). And drops of salt on my cheeks. (Made good through love... maybe that's the problem).
So then, what am I afraid of that it never seems to go...
********************************
Anyway... and later and the most fucked up night yet. I must have cried four times on Coronas and ass fucked and he slapped me. And I am still empty and I am still dead and he still won't say that he loves me and I am still the same after all this fucking and the bliss of this afternoon.
Everything was perfect before... And I was sure that it was all in sync... But the fucking Hudson lies! And the breeze and the lips of those kids and the peace and my waist and the metal railing with the three looming towers pressed against the George Washington skyline. And I should have known!
And I can't even see anymore through these tears and there is no one at the other end of the clouds.
Why do I always fuck everything up? Should I, at this point, expect anything less...?
So then, what am I afraid of that it never seems to go...
********************************
Anyway... and later and the most fucked up night yet. I must have cried four times on Coronas and ass fucked and he slapped me. And I am still empty and I am still dead and he still won't say that he loves me and I am still the same after all this fucking and the bliss of this afternoon.
Everything was perfect before... And I was sure that it was all in sync... But the fucking Hudson lies! And the breeze and the lips of those kids and the peace and my waist and the metal railing with the three looming towers pressed against the George Washington skyline. And I should have known!
And I can't even see anymore through these tears and there is no one at the other end of the clouds.
Why do I always fuck everything up? Should I, at this point, expect anything less...?
Tuesday, July 20, 1999
Grant's Tomb and Vodka
There is almost no point to writing anymore... life is lived at a clip that outruns it and these letters (which were once my soul survival) seem like almost an archaic practice now.
I am in B's new apartment (at 139th Street) (and for the second night) and it is only part of a pathetic favor to help me avoid Grant's tomb, my vodka bottle and myself.
AIR7 called me today with incredible nerve after last night (I mean, the night before...). When he wanted to cum in my face and I said "no" he emotionally shut himself down and I cried and I hate him and then he said that he loved me, and I left and whispered goodbye, which I know is a goodbye forever. (Please God, give me the strength to make it that way). And then the next night, I slept with B (for the fourth time) and am back again, although only to avoid my tears at his fucking phone call.
Am I supposed to call him back (a funny story!). But I can't because it crushes me and I die every time I try to bend him and all of that to my will. I saw Scheisser on Sunday night, too (who was suddenly so charming again) and I wished for the laughter and for the rush and the joy that my life was. And now I am nothing but a fucking slut. (The Irish man at the concert... the Mexican in the bar... the Indian taxi driver) and I hate myself more for it and feel more and more worthless and I desperately try to connect to anyone.
But now AIR7 is taking away form me even that, and so he is taking away everything... I have nothing without him... without sleeping on his shoulder. Without the flashing red smile of the Whitney museum.
(And B says "It's not raining.")
I don't what to do because I can't make things the way that I wish...
B and I saw Eyes Wide Shut today and all I want to do is smoke up (or snort up) and spit on him and his beautiful green eyes and never need him ever again and never wish to be called sweet or made to feel beautiful... Because I am not. I am a slut who never deserved him to begin with and I want to die being denied him, even if I have to struggle with it.
I don't want peace. I want him. I don't want to move on. I want to move back.
But God and the whole fucking world conspire to make happiness impossible.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, FUCK HIM!!!
I am in B's new apartment (at 139th Street) (and for the second night) and it is only part of a pathetic favor to help me avoid Grant's tomb, my vodka bottle and myself.
AIR7 called me today with incredible nerve after last night (I mean, the night before...). When he wanted to cum in my face and I said "no" he emotionally shut himself down and I cried and I hate him and then he said that he loved me, and I left and whispered goodbye, which I know is a goodbye forever. (Please God, give me the strength to make it that way). And then the next night, I slept with B (for the fourth time) and am back again, although only to avoid my tears at his fucking phone call.
Am I supposed to call him back (a funny story!). But I can't because it crushes me and I die every time I try to bend him and all of that to my will. I saw Scheisser on Sunday night, too (who was suddenly so charming again) and I wished for the laughter and for the rush and the joy that my life was. And now I am nothing but a fucking slut. (The Irish man at the concert... the Mexican in the bar... the Indian taxi driver) and I hate myself more for it and feel more and more worthless and I desperately try to connect to anyone.
But now AIR7 is taking away form me even that, and so he is taking away everything... I have nothing without him... without sleeping on his shoulder. Without the flashing red smile of the Whitney museum.
(And B says "It's not raining.")
I don't what to do because I can't make things the way that I wish...
B and I saw Eyes Wide Shut today and all I want to do is smoke up (or snort up) and spit on him and his beautiful green eyes and never need him ever again and never wish to be called sweet or made to feel beautiful... Because I am not. I am a slut who never deserved him to begin with and I want to die being denied him, even if I have to struggle with it.
I don't want peace. I want him. I don't want to move on. I want to move back.
But God and the whole fucking world conspire to make happiness impossible.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, FUCK HIM!!!
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