today

The wind thuds against my window, shaking my blinds and curtains. I suddenly imagine this almighty wind taking my body for a ride, whisking me away from here. Perhaps it could pick me up like a tornado, spin me around and throw me to a different land. A far away place. Where the heart knows no name. I tingle with the sensation of being a stranger where memories are made and not held onto for fear of a disappearance. I cry into the palm of my hand, grasping the pillow with the other. My eyelashes flutter with the shaking of tears, and when I open my mouth to scream nothing but a mild sob comes out. Perhaps we are all prisoners, in our own prisons but occasionally I want to rip my skin apart - and be a butterfly that will die with a handful of magical days. Is this I wonder what depression is? The stuttering of the morning light, turning into a plethora of black, darkened clouds. My lips are chapped, my body scorned with a fever. I cannot even remember why I made love to her, and yet the guilt is biting back all that happiness could perpetuate to realness. It is like I once heard. I always love the people I should hate, and the hate the people I should love.

longing

It’s late, the midnight hour is buzzing and I can’t stop thinking about you. Perhaps it was the fluorescent lights in the hospital room, or the gouging of tears streaming from my eyes and down my cheeks that bring up your memory like a slightly tilted coffin. I dream you are dead sometimes, at least I did at first now my anger has penetrated my worry. I do not know if you are alive, or dead - occasionally neither matter. I convince myself you are a coward, a piece of shit. I’ve been lied to a million times, in a hundred different ways but I thought at least you would be different. A flicker of a candle being lit - come on baby light my fire. You did, for awhile you were all the fire I needed.

But you, you just know, you just do

Nothing is unfolding as it should, my body feels corroded. I want a new one. Sometimes I feel as if I were stuck in a grave, unmoving – sheltered by nothing but aching flesh and bone. Is everything else useless? My soul feels unfinished but perhaps it is time to call it quits. If I die I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Haven’t I died before? Isn’t it the living part that is the hardest of all? I’m so tired of crying myself to sleep. I hate these nights where my brain is helpless, and my body restless. I can feel myself drowning.

a note of survival

The moon is almost full again, pregnant with fury. I wait each month for it’s madness, blinding the darken sky with it’s wondrous gaze. My hands are shaking and my eyes are swollen as I write this. I caught myself in the mirror this morning and stared, pressing the palms of my hands to the counter, rushing closer and closer to that mirrored image. Could my eyes be this swollen from all those burning tears? It has been so long since I cried for anything, for anyone in such a way. I was not sure I had the capacity to care so much. I thought this heart of mine was dead to such feelings, succumbed to a coldness - a strict loneliness. It is untrue I suppose. I sleep with ‘Steppenwolf’ beside my bed, before it laid in bed with me, next to my extra pillows - shifting in the night as I did. Perhaps it is the closest I will ever come to being with you - of you.

I feel hollow inside today. I even found refuge in a closed public bathroom where I cried feverishly, thinking of all the things I may never get to do with you. It occurred to me that it is probably true that you do not feel for me what I have always felt for you. I do not think we could be separated for so long if this were requited. I feel so much it’s spellbinding, and I surely cannot compete with the past that I was never in, or a love I never knew - nor even that of orange skin and golden hair. For my love affair with you is so unnatural it could be warranted as crazy. But didn’t people fall in love years ago, centuries ago just by gazes, letters, and simply complexities of nature? Are we not such old souls that we would fall into complex habits?

without love i won't survive

The moon is still full and pregnant in my dream, dancing across the sky as it did in my reality only a week or so ago. It’s harmonized with the baby child wrapped in blankets beside me. What a dream. I make a horrible mother. She is brown skinned with deep chocolate eyes, and tiny fingers staring up at me. I listen to her heart beat silently, and shake her to make sure she is still alive. This baby child has shown up in my dreams before, the night before but that dream is not as cross as this one. I leave her alone, in a humongous house and expect nothing to happen to her. Guilt riddles me as I awake from this madness. The house I lived in full of emptiness and the land before it flooded with not enough space, houses upon each other as if they were shields from the outside world.

Apparently these sort of dreams (which I’ve never had until now) are significant. Most often I have dreamt of being pregnant but not of an actual baby. In a way I have been in a deep, dark, scary place for some time, and perhaps it is time my dreams reflect that. The neglect of oneself rearing it’s ugly head into my subconscious. Lately I’ve been feeling spoon fed of ideas I’d like to construct and then I find myself complacent, even lethargic. I have rubbed myself wrong this year and there is so little solace inside myself. I am haunted by my own insanity, by the madness that has often surrounded me. I hate my body but this is not new for I’ve struggled with this hatred since adolescence although never developed the disorders many women my age did at the peak of fashion mags in the nineties showing heroin chic chicks like Kate Moss wrapped in skin and bones. I was thinner then though, my metabolism quicker to wrap everything up and wash it away – I walked longer.

I’ve been avoiding work emails, and phone calls. Why do I do this? It’s almost as if I cannot stand the idea of pressing myself to the camera lens right now. I am too raw at least it feels this way. If it is not for a friend I cannot bear my soul for green paper that I will throw away anyway on something stupid, and whimsical. I want to break away from the heartbreak that has haunted me these years, shed my skin and start anew. Strange that most recently a man told me it was obvious that I was a woman who had had her heart savaged. Is it that obvious? Do I wear the scar on the outside as readily as it is on the inside? Some people see me better than others. Although someone very close to me told me that I do not seem okay. What does this even mean anymore?

Once had, barely forgotten. I am always fascinated by people who had not seemed to genuinely be in love – for then would you desire someone else? I do not want the kind of love that is shared. I wish I could be that way. I have tried so hard to shape my romanticism into something other than what I am. I suppress everything though as if I were a bottle nipped shut by a cork. How do people recover from the tenderness of true love? I wish I could wrap my head around my heart and turn it’s strangeness into logic. Is it true even when it ends?

the end

I can shut out the noise of the city sometimes, walking the back streets to the lower east side, getting lost in my own footsteps. I walk in the street, along parked cars. I think of him, but perhaps this has just been as natural to me as breathing for the past three years. I suppose admitting this may help me move on from it finally.

I sought out a psychic last night, leave it to me to only engage in these specific acts when I am suffering from the loss of love. The last time I sought someone out of a more in tune nature was several years ago after a lover of mine and I had split after living together. We’d known each other since high school, and the loss seemed monumental at the time. I have loved many people, and have been quite surprised by my capacity to love but only been in love with two people. I suppose I wanted desperately to be in love with Jae this year for that would cure me of my undying love for him. It would change my sexuality again, rearrange itself since he awakened in me a passion for a man I’d never felt before. It was only logical I return to women afterward.

The pain attributing to my overwhelming craziness this year. She didn’t say what I wanted to hear of course, which was that he could love me again. I suppose I wanted affirmation on whether or not to fight for him, but what I received was a firm no. At least she was kind about telling me the truth, and not necessarily something I wanted to hear. That isn’t true though. I wanted to hear what could be the truth because someone outside of my world had to tell me. Not only that but she told me that he never gave me his heart completely, which must be of some truth as otherwise he would have not been so swayed when his family got involved in the demise of our relationship.

It is the end and I can only accept it with a tight fist, a palm on the doorknob - an empty stare and a loud thump behind me followed by a thud. There is hope though, as always as life would be tedious without it. She did say there would be someone I would literally run into in and around March - to keep my eyes open. Who knows, maybe my next love is waiting around the corner somewhere. For now I’ll supply myself with all the golden love I’ve been giving everyone else.

slumdog

The first time I saw ‘slumdog millionaire’ I wrote this 02/08/09:

He says we can live on love. It’s a dynamic and endless theme – love, love, love without food or water we could live on love. I’ve always thought this, wouldn’t your body confine itself to the knowledge, your brain working to remind your stomach it was full of everything else. Consumed by the power, and overwhelming sensation of it, when you have nothing this notion is so much better than the alternative – having nothing with no one. The problems of our childhood melt away like shadows in the night, monsters ridden and bound together elsewhere in our memories. Sure, we could live on love. Our thirst for anything else would be redefined.



The second time this evening I wrote this:

It occurred to me that few people fight for love. The mere substance of it bounces away into the sheer depth of the night, the darkness swaying only apathy. How can love be such an easy word? Flexible in it’s ground, the way it rolls off the tongue. Some love is destiny, ripped from the headlines of your heart and soul. I could be foolish in saying so but I just do not think so. I would rather fight, with blood stained limbs – and a damaged heart than give up entirely on it altogether. Yes. I have not forgotten for one moment, and the reflection of real love lingers like an extra limb, another heart protruding in my chest.