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sincerely, yours [Apr 19, 2008]


The world had been filled so effortlessly with the cadence of stilling hearts, tearless mourning seeping into the hairline fracture that earthquakes couldn’t crack.

Her plight was one of simple regret, nesting in the dry twine curling at the base of her heart with wingless fluttering carving retold stories on the walls. She was etched in poetry, the spoken word of deceit shrouding her like an aged quilt. The cotton strands were catching her around the neck like a noose, choking her in instances where memory appeared.

She had the means to cut them off.
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself instead.

They had a tale, a secret loveletter that extended its pages until they were bound with permanence and infirmity alike. It started and ended with an epilogue, a memoir of sorry tries and hardened maybes. The pages were filled with bylines of love, love, and more love and the sappy stories lacked sustainability.

Her elegy was his love song. Composed with misled lines of straightness and deterrence, they wrote apart and together, losing keep of their edges until her Dear, dear heart melded with his We had it once, swirling in ink stains with a final publication of They were.

Bared without clothes, clothed without bones, they drew the syllables from each other with the intent to burrow the niceties deep in the folds of heartache neither of them was capable to admit.

He loved her until the sky burned coppery coral then let her go from the cupped hands that cradled her moth-winged heart into the quilted northern lights. Her unwept demons stayed behind and pulled his eyelids shut and pawed at his fingers until he threw her crisp satires in cursive script that wound itself in netted enchantment.

She was no sooner gone into the peaceful lullaby of the night when he caught her with chords of mischief and a childlike empowerment. That twinkling wonderment stilled her flight but couldn’t give her descent. Her hurried memo of apologies and lingering affection were sent with the stardust by a wavering hand catching the final light of his sunny lovelight as the night drew her further away.

This is fact, not fiction, for the first time in years.



(because we need an update here. pee-ess: does anyone know where the last line came from?)




Symbolism [Oct 7, 2007]

[ mood | phlegmy ]

i'm beckoning the wild harlot letters that breeze past the entryways, always too big to fit but too insignificant to have verbal meaning. they pushpull pullpush themselves until they form words, then sentences, then passages, and then they become a monster of a poem that threatens to eat me alive with flickering syntax and linguistical tongues. they rip, they gouge, they take and they break until they've had their fill of my blank pages, until they're ripe enough to carve into the stone muscles of the nighttime air. the i's are dotted with inked ferocity. the commas blanket my fear into conjuncted catacombs that willow with the lack of discourse. the punctuations leave me breathless, punctured, and i plagiarize my own death, editing and revising until nothing is written except for monosyllabic musings of why, where, when, who, what, and how.

it doesn't help that the words are taken from the dictionary that only possess definitions of the word love and synonyms that begin and end with him.



title or description

title or description

[Aug 10, 2007]

I know this really isn't the place to just go make a post like this, but I love the concept of this community.

What do you love?

Check it out. Join it maybe. If you like the concept, then just mention it in your lj or a community you're in or whatever.


[Feb 4, 2006]

Satanic Panic.

Closing the door to an old abandoned house you’re unsure of how you got into this predicament to begin with. No one would ever think of you having this problem, you’re the last person for this to happen too. Alas, you’re here and you’re in the situation, and now everyone is left to question everything. It’s okay; no one blames you, only their morals. Now he was the last person anyone would believe to cast you away, but no one blames him, everyone’s confused at his disposition.

You knew it wouldn’t have worked if you two were together, but you thought he loved you. Like fire and ice, you would have had a hard time, but it would have been worth it, to you at least. You must shake this off, you’re not one to waste time, you need to find others and encase there sins and desires. Quickly walking to the bathroom, half of the mirror is broken, and you do not want to look at that toilet ever again. Looking at yourself you eyes hold no tinge of black, and you swear that you see a fallen angel amidst the dust and grime. The water is scolding as it caresses your hands and you do not pull away, you’re used to this pain. It feels almost like the burning in your lungs. Hey, I thought you could handle this, inhale and exhale, no use holding your breath for something that will never come. His words were articulate and even your wittiest remarks would not even be seen as clever but only petty, so you refrained from speaking and you had left, and came to where you are now, a stingy bathroom halfway across town.

You ran away from him, and that’s another thing that no one would believe you did, because you do not run from people, people run from you. You fell and landed on some broken glass, it cut your left palm open, it was deep, but not too deep. You wrapped your sleeve around it and kept on moving. Secretly, you never felt the pain of the glass cutting your flesh, but only the pain from your throbbing heart. Washing the gash under the too-hot liquid, you think back to his words. Shuddering, the steam-filled room is no longer as warm as it once was. The chill is biting at your heart, and it’s a strange sensation to have your body swallowed up in heat, and your heart enclosed in ice.

this is a dead scene. [Aug 12, 2005]

Unsystematically Ruining Lives.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, this is the way it had to be,” He says as he pulls away from the scene that ripped your life apart with two fists and a cruel smile. Penetration. Blood. Thrust. Finished. It hurt more than words can explain, and right now you have no words to say. You can’t make a sound, but tears stream silently down your face, and you can’t comprehend what to do next. How can you walk away from something like this? It was one of those clichéd lines ‘I never thought it would happen to me’, but it has and you can’t turn back time and decide not to walk down that dark and desolate street that was screaming danger as the street lamp flickered.

Thinking back to the words, that this was how it had to be, you wonder if there is truth behind the statement or is he just trying to make himself feel better for damaging a life beyond recognition. Maybe fate wasn’t on your side, and it was really how it had to be, there was no way around it. Maybe it was faith? You weren’t much of a believer and maybe that was your downfall.

Struggling to do up your jeans, you break, and you can finally scream bloody murder, but it’s not as loud as you wished it was. You still see everything in static, and all the sounds are muffled and seem so distant. You don’t move. You can’t move. The pain is unbearable, and you hate yourself for not being able to put your shirt on. Naked and scarred and everything seems to be getting unsystematic. Everything you did had order, had a structure, but this didn’t follow the plan. Or maybe this is the plan? You’re not sure about anything anymore.

[Apr 8, 2005]

on the way home i listened to my weary tires brawl with the slick asphalt below. the unsteady punches landing somewhere between my eyes and the back of my head. i begged for forgiveness. some bitter sort of absolution. i begged each and every raindrop to come careening through the fragile cage of black shatterproof glass. triumphantly spitting shard after cold wet shard into both of my eyes. screaming in its skin soaking heart drenching way "See! I can break boundries, why are you scared!?"

i am scared.
i want to cry my eyes out, fall down.
allow someone to pick me up.

instead, i run home.
i sit all alone.
and wish for the time when his headlights would have followed me here.

prompted [Apr 7, 2005]

I've always wanted to have one of those "perfect trees" in my backyard. Like the ones that you see in movies that are all twisted and gnarled and are hundreds of years old. Most importantly, I wanted one that I could climb as high as possible and just sit on the limb and and watch the world go by. I wanted to sit there alone and write as the sun set. I wanted to make a tire swing to hang from it.

My aunt had the perfect tree in her backyard. In fact, she had two with a hammock strung between as if in a tug-o-war. My cousins, who are both older, had built a tree house. Well, tree platform. But I was still small enough that I could climb higher and the branches could still support me, all I needed was a boost up. The the years passed. I got bigger. I and while I could still climb, I couldn't go as high. Eventually, a big storm came and broke off some of the limbs, including the one with our tree house. Later, my aunt moved to a condo with no trees as her kids went off to college.

So here I am today. Treelimb-less. And still wishing that I could climb again. I have a beautiful old oak in my yard. Twisted and gnarled. But no branches that I can grasp. I pray that one day a low branch will spontaneously appear just within my reach. Of course, it will never happen. But one of these years I will find another tree to climb. And then there I will sit until the sun sets, notebook in hand, camera at my side. And from there, I will watch the world go by.

[Mar 24, 2005]


Sorry, friends list, for seeing this crap story twice.


I traced the outline of a singular vein that made routes and interstates along her arm. Destination: -pulse. She blew wisps of hair from of her eyes and choreographed her fingers to the cadence of the thunder. I watched the clouds as they birthed minuscule teardrops, collapsing onto the windshield with so much strength that I felt my body quake. The dashboard provided silhouettes of the raindrops as they danced along to the decaying sunlight. The clouds clapped and her breath shook. I could feel my heart clamoring beneath my breasts and my hands trembling beneath my thighs.

Boy. Girl.

She was a boy. She wore a bright red scarf so tight around her neck that it's a surprise she didn't asphyxiate on her own breath. Or choke on her adam's apple. Her breasts were tiny hills, oddly shaped and padded along her chest. Her calves were pure muscle and her thighs paraded itself, an obvious come-on.

"I think I'm losing myself," she says. I smile. I've lost me, too.

"It's okay, self awareness is overrated anyways." I reassure her. Her lips mimic her eyes, agape and lost like a rogue recluse.

I closed my eyes and imagined the world melting away, streams and rivers and volcanoes melting and spilling into Antarctica, thus spilling off the earth like a broken water faucet. I imagined the car melting into rocks and sediments, the raindrops transforming into a huge waterfall. We'd be the only ones on earth. We'd be the only ones gravity adored.

"You know what?" I opened my eyes at the sound of her voice. I glanced at her, waiting. "My favorite color is red," she says. "Red for lips...blood...passion...anger...sex...roses...the inner walls of a cunt. Red is everything I want to be." She lifted her hand and placed a delicate finger to the cold window, despairingly trailing behind the vagrant raindrops. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed the side of my cheek. Her pulse was so close that I nearly swooned to the beat and knowledge that she's alive.

I closed my eyes and imagined waterfalls and red lips.

I heard the car door open and it echoed and resonated as she exited. She stood there for a moment, the door ajar with stray raindrops flooding the passenger's seat. Goodbye, she'd say.

I'm going to watch the news tonight. I'm going to see her face plastered on the dusty TV screen, red lips and hate crime all in the same screen-shot. I'm going to cry storms. I will imagine her smiling red lips and her red nails. Whenever I drive, I will imagine the raindrops that were lost in the seat and I will imagine that it's her ghost crying.

[Feb 25, 2005]

"what the fuck does it look like i've been doing"
"where are you going"
"just forget it okay?"
walking away she noted that in the time that had lapsed it had rained and froze and snowed and rained again, seasons had past and she had aged, and all for reasons which never fully legitimized themselves. the pursuits of love, the games of the weary- leading her home to the VCR on her bedroom floor (she had never learned to use the dvd player) where she could still press rewind and hear the whir of old fashioned inconvenience; watch it all as it went, frame by frame, in reverse. god, was it all for nothing? could it all have been... for nothing?
she passed out around 3; sleeping pills didn't always do it, but with a few glasses of wine, she was out; so deep in her dreams that she did not even stir at the sound of knocking at her apartment door
"lys- its me. open up."
it was no use, now; but he waited.

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