several short thoughts
Posted: Wed Mar 14, 2007 7:51 am
several short thoughts and recollections. i'd appreciate comments&criticism...
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her hand fell to her knee, palm up and so gracefully curled, reminiscent of a pale and grey sparrow perched on a bare, cold branch of an ash tree, as if it had been dropped in the midst of a great, terrible sigh. the skin looked stretched and somehow painted with soft energies of sorrow and dust, the air around it whispering that she was too sad. her fingers looked like the limbs of kind ghosts, ivory hued, yet, for some reason, icy from the lack of blood, as if her extremities were preparing for death. her nails white and weak, cut short, and clean. the hand looked like exhaustion, placed in the pause that precedes an apology, or in that space of time during which you give up, relinquishing ambition and strength because holding your fist around it makes it bleed too much.. it rested there, trying to be...
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i am a break in your skin. an open split of wetness and the metallic taste of blood. but we still spill out of ourselves, only to meet the other at the edge of our aged foreground. i am a taste on your lips, a memory of movement across that softness, the faint touch of old breathing and an abandoned attempt to deconstruct; bare our naked selves like so. i am nothing to you but tiredness and the shifting thoughts before a sigh.
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ecstasy of weak wings in the wind of your breath; i am rendered beautifully confused and somewhat vulnerable to the sweeping grace of such air... i feel myself growing quiet, wondering if, perhaps, such silence will be transferred to lull the constant voices inside my head. maybe that's wishful thinking, but i don't know what else to do... some sort of heartless attentiveness to the breaking of my strength left him amazed at this disintegration
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his eyes are unfamiliar to me. i know his skin and his smell, i know his touch and the way his hair moves when he laughs. i know his lips and his jaw, and the complex shape of his knee. but i don't know and neither can i begin to understand his eyes... he doesn't let me look into them, says that eye contact with me is too jarring, too full of honesty and some form of hurt. i didn't understand that either.
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i loved him so rashly and so passionately, wanting skin and heart and sacrifice and growth all at once, willing to suffer and hurt myself without realizing that such things would indirectly wound him as well. i bled and slipped, intermittently, in and out of my mind, treated reality with contempt and lived for the sake of escaping life, all the while expecting him to love me back and accept it all. i offered him all of me and yet i never ceased to damage and hate my very existence. i lost all sense of self and yet i fancied that i was capable of loving him enough. i didn't. i never have.
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Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed& opened& closed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left untortured. They cry they cry they cry. I am alone at home, the pink speckled granite tiles of the kitchen floor know me too well. I feel foreign; there are twelve steps in the flight of stairs, the floor near my mother’s dresser creaks, the wallpaper in the back corner of the living room is half-slightly peeling, the sliding glass window makes a gasping sound when it’s opened, the garage takes approximately four second to close, but I do not know this place. The light of the setting sun reflected off the giant mirror in the room with the grand piano is absolutely breathtaking, but my skin feels cold here; it’s difficult to sleep, and I’m always thirsty. This place only pretends to know me. My face in its reflective surfaces—the TV& computer screens, the microwave door, a shiny, partially brass door knob—it seems kind of scared, vaguely ill-suited and awkward. I have touched these walls for the past ten years; I do not know this place. Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed, opened& closed& slammed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left alone. They cry like nothing’s left. I am at home, in this place, alone.
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she had angry fists. clenched & quivering, and he wouldn't look at her face. but he took that fist into his hands. grazed the smooth slopes of her knuckles with his lips; closed his eyes; let that softness overcome him, opened his mouth a little & whispered into the lines between her fingers; "i made a mistake."
----------
her hand fell to her knee, palm up and so gracefully curled, reminiscent of a pale and grey sparrow perched on a bare, cold branch of an ash tree, as if it had been dropped in the midst of a great, terrible sigh. the skin looked stretched and somehow painted with soft energies of sorrow and dust, the air around it whispering that she was too sad. her fingers looked like the limbs of kind ghosts, ivory hued, yet, for some reason, icy from the lack of blood, as if her extremities were preparing for death. her nails white and weak, cut short, and clean. the hand looked like exhaustion, placed in the pause that precedes an apology, or in that space of time during which you give up, relinquishing ambition and strength because holding your fist around it makes it bleed too much.. it rested there, trying to be...
----------
i am a break in your skin. an open split of wetness and the metallic taste of blood. but we still spill out of ourselves, only to meet the other at the edge of our aged foreground. i am a taste on your lips, a memory of movement across that softness, the faint touch of old breathing and an abandoned attempt to deconstruct; bare our naked selves like so. i am nothing to you but tiredness and the shifting thoughts before a sigh.
----------
ecstasy of weak wings in the wind of your breath; i am rendered beautifully confused and somewhat vulnerable to the sweeping grace of such air... i feel myself growing quiet, wondering if, perhaps, such silence will be transferred to lull the constant voices inside my head. maybe that's wishful thinking, but i don't know what else to do... some sort of heartless attentiveness to the breaking of my strength left him amazed at this disintegration
----------
his eyes are unfamiliar to me. i know his skin and his smell, i know his touch and the way his hair moves when he laughs. i know his lips and his jaw, and the complex shape of his knee. but i don't know and neither can i begin to understand his eyes... he doesn't let me look into them, says that eye contact with me is too jarring, too full of honesty and some form of hurt. i didn't understand that either.
----------
i loved him so rashly and so passionately, wanting skin and heart and sacrifice and growth all at once, willing to suffer and hurt myself without realizing that such things would indirectly wound him as well. i bled and slipped, intermittently, in and out of my mind, treated reality with contempt and lived for the sake of escaping life, all the while expecting him to love me back and accept it all. i offered him all of me and yet i never ceased to damage and hate my very existence. i lost all sense of self and yet i fancied that i was capable of loving him enough. i didn't. i never have.
----------
Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed& opened& closed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left untortured. They cry they cry they cry. I am alone at home, the pink speckled granite tiles of the kitchen floor know me too well. I feel foreign; there are twelve steps in the flight of stairs, the floor near my mother’s dresser creaks, the wallpaper in the back corner of the living room is half-slightly peeling, the sliding glass window makes a gasping sound when it’s opened, the garage takes approximately four second to close, but I do not know this place. The light of the setting sun reflected off the giant mirror in the room with the grand piano is absolutely breathtaking, but my skin feels cold here; it’s difficult to sleep, and I’m always thirsty. This place only pretends to know me. My face in its reflective surfaces—the TV& computer screens, the microwave door, a shiny, partially brass door knob—it seems kind of scared, vaguely ill-suited and awkward. I have touched these walls for the past ten years; I do not know this place. Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed, opened& closed& slammed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left alone. They cry like nothing’s left. I am at home, in this place, alone.
----------
she had angry fists. clenched & quivering, and he wouldn't look at her face. but he took that fist into his hands. grazed the smooth slopes of her knuckles with his lips; closed his eyes; let that softness overcome him, opened his mouth a little & whispered into the lines between her fingers; "i made a mistake."