forever

Yesterday I walked by the room she died in and I saw that my whispers are still under the bed.

And now I'm leaving more whispers, placing them carefully, the I love yous and the remember whens. I don't want this room to become a memory, too. But we all know that this is the last summer.
I try to find the compassion and sweetness everyone says I inherited from her, but it's been missing. I try to find that place where I'm strong, but that's missing, too. I try to tell them what I'm feeling, but my words are wrong.

I just want to know that goodbye doesn't mean forever.

honesty

It's funny that I can call myself a grown woman. I have to now, if I want to claim everything I've done as my own.
And it's funny, that as a grown woman, I still can't seem to be honest. It was always easy to convince myself that if maybe I just told the truth, I'd be an honest person. But that's not honesty.
Instead of facing the frightening or uncomfortable things in life, I've learned to evade it all and stay withdrawn. In some ways it's become easier. The distance helps. In other ways, I wonder how I've maintained relationships this long.
I could say everything. I feel the honesty in my mouth sometimes, but my voice carries it away with sarcasm or roughness or dismissal.
To me, honest people are the bravest people in the world.

don't you let me go tonight

sometimes i wish romance wasn't so foreign to me.

love, to me, isn't something precious and fragile. or even beautiful. to me, it's strength and trust and and comfort and honesty, visited with nice moments. normally i don't mind my rough version of love, but there are some nights when i wish i understood romance and that i could handle the delicate nature of it.

it's songs like "tonight" by lykke li that make me want that. don't you let me go, let me go tonight. don't you let me go, let me go tonight. god, it's passionate and sad and fragile and beautiful. but sometimes i wonder if that type of love doesn't exist unless it's pushed by sadness. it's that epic love, that fighting-together-forever, that is born from tragedy. when you're in love, the smallest things can become tragedies, and somehow, that's beautiful.

so i suppose i don't want to understand romance. i just want to know that love can exist without the constant sorrow and pain that seems to glamorize it.

bring me here

it's that sawdusted spirit, those cigarette breaths, that sun-dried skin that brought me here. it's that simple passion, those story-telling eyes, that stormy laughter that keep me alive.
and sometimes all i can do is smile and walk away even when no one else will stay.

just a minute

homework. sunshine. meeting. work. drive. friends. childhood dreams. concerts. late night letter writing. eight a.m. fingerprints. drive. old folks. smile. grandpa's house. sleepless nights. thinking nights. grandma's looking better, doesn't she look better? fake smiles. new friends. chaos. swallowed pride. occidentals in armchairs. drive. dusty town. baby love. grown-up love. drive. family reunions. late reminiscence. homework when the house is quiet. is she still there? wake up. more smiles. walk past the yellow room. answers to questions i didn't want to ask. brake failure. teenage ambition. uncomfortable, elaborate dinners. returning to nature. dust and lights and music and dancing. five a.m. laughter. hasty mornings. forgotten clothes. drive. rushed goodbyes. drive. bitter anticipation. home. drive. sleep on someone else's bed, just once more, just for a few minutes. drive.

degredation in numerals

I. it’s getting late and you won’t stop drinking. we’re sustained by telephone electricity and i’m afraid this is our last call. drop the pieces on cobblestone streets and smoky barstools. you say you want to forget it all but, honey, you know he’s coming back.

II. it’s getting late and it’s getting cold and i can feel you shiver through your t-shirt. i want to hold you but i know that it’s more than just a touch right now. it’s forgiveness and plaster and lets-just-forget-it-all. darling, just let me go alone tonight

III. it’s getting late and you’re changing. or maybe you’re not because you always are. prop it up with polytheistic unspecific prayers and tell me how beautiful the degradation is. it’s all for one, all for you. sweetie, how long ago did we lose you?

result of sleepless nights and beat lit

sometimes i wonder if i'll ever be good enough.
it's one of those things, you know, one of those crazy things that nobody believes but me but hey what can i say. i'm lost in these ideas of perfection, not your perfection, and suddenly i see it slipping away. i want to see the world, see the things that everyone else overlooks. i want to be the one that really understands, i want the streets and sidewalks to remember me, i want the cracks in the concrete to call me back.
i go to all these places and i never return, but i want to see them again so desperately. they're like a piece of myself that i never knew was missing. there's saxophones and spices in new orleans. there's red and orange and freedom in zion national park. there's thunder and dancing in west palm beach. there's discoveries and love in pompeii. there's ancient dreams and tear drop stone in rotenberg. there's citrus air and sunset sand in san jose. there's glass and sleeping rooftops in venice. there's underground secrets and silent gardens in london. there's twisted bedsheets and candle laments in paris. there's hinesburg parishville bar harbor chester croton on the hudson loon mountain the adirondacks the st. lawrence the atlantic rome austria sharon four corners potsdam home.
i think of these things and these places and sometimes i feel like i can't keep it all in. i miss them all and it's this weight in my chest, this weight that's telling me i can't have them all back. it's telling me some of them are gone forever, maybe they're blown away in the sandstorms, maybe they're washed away in the ocean, i can't return. and then this weight, the weight in my chest, is telling me i'm running out of time. i want to see so much more, it's not over it can't be over this can't be it. i've had so many nice things and i want so much more and who does that make me. this insatiable thing.
i think of her when i feel greedy, i think of her small room and her rosary on the doorknob. i want to tell everyone how much it hurts i want them to know what it means to me, but it's all the same to them. it's just another loss, something we all deal with. so i deal with it, because what else can i do? i hide it, i pretend i'm not dramatic, but god, sometimes i want to drive across the whole country just to have time to talk about it, talk about her, talk about me. she's me and i'm her, do you see? we're the same but she's so different and so far away now and i wonder if i can do it for her. can i fix it all, can i make up for the sadness? maybe if i try hard enough, if i live enough, she'll see me and know that i'm doing it for her. no one knows why i do these things and sometimes it hurts.
sometimes i wish i soaked t-shirt shoulders and didn't pretend. sometimes i wish i could write and let them see, let them see everything, it's all true and i hate things and love things and wish things and am more than this being, this walking talking thing. i'd talk and not worry if they were listening, just know that they cared.
they walked in and walked out and i was red dresses and smiles and they never knew. so i have this thing called pride, i can keep it in my pocket where no one can see it but i hate it actually. i don't like this thing called pride this ugly thing this face-saving fuck-up. it erodes away at me, it eats away at me and i still fight for it. it's like cigarettes or coffee or cancer. i used to take care of myself, i used to be good to myself. strange things happen when i lose the things that are important. i used to know home. i wanted to be there but now they're foreign and she's pushing us away, she's pushing us all away. like removing a sickness from her veins. we'll always be there, but she can pretend we're something else, she can pretend we're better than we really are.
sometimes i wonder if i'll ever be good enough.

another moment of melted snow and self-discovery

We felt the rain yesterday. It's that kind of night that I want to soak in the storm, breathe it, drink it, be it. We leaned out my window last night and tasted it.
With spring finally here and the snow melting, I feel like I'm re-discovering things. There's this whole new perspective that comes with a new season in New England. I'm seeing the world, my world, again under all the gray. It's been all adopted bitterness and preoccupations with sex and processed compassion, but I'm waking up again.
Maybe it's crazy, maybe it sounds cheesy, but it's there. Small parts of myself are resurfacing and it feels so good. I guess they were lost for a long time, years maybe, but sometimes it takes a whole lot of crap to get back to where you want to be. I know there was a time when I used to feel human. I remember the girl I used to be and I've missed her.
There's love in passion and strength in independence and truth in desire. I can still feel it all underneath my skin. I'll play piano at midnight, I'll taste rain, I'll stay awake at night because I can't do anything but think about writing, I'll crave the typewriter keys and fresh paper. I'll jump in a car and drive, I'll put pins in maps, I'll whisper bedtimes stories.
This person that I used to be, she played catch in the spring, she was sweet and polite and good, she was an inspiration, she sang with kids when their worlds were broken, she had big dreams. I spent so much of my youth trying to convince people I was more than that, more than what they saw, but I've come to discover it's silly to try. I focused so much energy on that, that I've turned into a person I'm not proud of, maybe even a person I don't like.
I remember when I was happy. Not just content and living, but honestly, truthfully, happy.
It's been awhile. I'm ready to come back now.

blasphemic provocation

my flowers are dying and my bookshelf reminds me of everything i might have to give up.

i've been all talk and no submission, i've been all mind and no provocation.
i speak blasphemy from my pedestal and once believed i was invincible.

this is the real world, honey.

sleepless words

i wore grandma's beads and took a deep breath. it was for her. weeks of sleepless days and nights and it came down to that. there were hours of driving and flowers and sometimes i forget how lucky i am. a night like this reminds me who's there, who really understands. my life is motivated by words, but sometimes they're really not enough.

i'm not

There's flowers and paper and missed calls and books and wind and she's there and I'm not.

the midnight thoughts

What is it that encourages us to explore the world? Why is it that it takes drastic change in setting to change us? We neglect to find depth in the places that are familiar to us; we use those places for comfort and refuge and nostalgia, but we don't have the capacity to see past our preconceived notions of them. Why is that? Can we gain objectivity without physically stepping back? Do we have to see new things in order to understand what we have?

I've always been fascinated with the world; I used to draw my dreams on maps with black sharpies. When I travel, I'm opened up to these new injustices, new ideas, new opportunities -- to me, it always seemed so glamorous to take on the world and stand for something.

Going to church this morning didn't necessarily enlighten me to a renewed Christian lifestyle, but it made me realize that it's people like that, the people that sit in the pews every week and attend all the routine church events, are the people that can see the entire world inside a small town. They're the ones that understand the need for revolution and action in even the insignificant places. They don't dismiss any gradient of pain -- it all means something.

Can people change when they stand still?
Can people find themselves when they never look down?

What does it mean to change the world?

it's a lonely job

"I wanted to be a writer once. But I didn't work hard enough at it... it's a lonely job."
(I accidentally watched Lifetime today. But I got this quote so it's okay.)

Today I took a route to Burlington that I didn't know. I ate whole wheat pizza and bought green glass bowls and listened to a static-y radio station I've never heard. I was bitter in the morning about being abandoned, but I realized for the first time that I'll be ok. I've always known I could survive on my own, but I understood today that I can be happy.

I'm ready for the job.

there's a place

there's this place i belong to
where i walk barefoot on graves and swim in the dark and touch the honest world.
it's the place i'll never forget. it's the place i'll always return.

wild world

baby, it's a wild world. hold on tight or you'll lose your way.
baby, i can't fight your wars. hide a knife in your boot and breathe.
baby, it's been a long time.

baby, it's a wild world.

a storm like this

i've never seen a storm like this before. there's lightning every night and i can taste thunder in the mornings. the clouds are purple and the sun is taking a break from the world. i'd live like this forever, inside the storm.

someday

someday i will ask you if i was a disappointment.

books and a water glass

i spent my entire paycheck on books and organic tea and drinks last night. i found calvino and monroe and others. or maybe they found me.
we met by the flower shop and walked the streets at midnight. i put my last two crumpled dollars under my water glass.
i have two dimes, some pennies, and a bunch of british coins in my wallet. but there are six new books on my shelf and i'm happy.

Your green-eyed girl

turn around and look at me. i'm seven letters and a smile, i'm your green-eyed past, your blonde-haired girl.

4 am summer

day four and i've gotten used to missing you. i'm learning to ignore the pain in my stomach and constriction in my chest: it's a part of me now. you're a part of me now.
it's my summer morning. 4 am just like i always told you. it's my time and you're not here. you're in baltimore where there is no 4 am light and no thunder air.

not like there is here.

i wish i could have you forever

"i wish i could have you forever."

sequence still sparkles when the sun goes down. sunglasses are glamour and glitter is magic. they sing from the porch; be strong, be strong. the beach is caught in their tangled hair and the salt is in their skin. blanket laughter and bedtime secrets and eyelashes dusting cheeks.

i wish i could have you forever, just like this.

spray paint memories

it wasn't the kind of day for a man to die.

spray paint on sidewalks, pictures in boxes, faded artist statements... you're inside it all.
they'll toast to you tonight. it's your memorial, boy.

piano in the river

these are the nights you remember, the ones with old friends and good music.

we sat on the hood of my car and talked about travel. under planets like fireflies, we talked about the world. we shared blankets and beer in the dark. we listened to piano and violin under the lamppost. small under the sky, our words fell into the river and we knew they meant something there; they'd been waiting to sink to the bottom and claim it. it's been seven years; the words are piling up. soon they'll reach the surface and everyone will know. everyone will know.

these are the nights you remember, the nights you remember why you're alive.

save pompeii

we found home that day.

we were the first to cherish those lost ruins, the only ones to feel the secret city beneath our feet. we were explorers. we were natives. we were friends.

we were heroes,
saving the city thousands of years too late.

lost affairs

.paint-stained denim and midnight walks and whispers into palms.
.2 a.m. coffee and secret ambitions and laughter stumbling into tomorrow.
.knotted ribbons and sporadic escapes and the inevitable returns.
.ocean afternoons and galaxy nights and storm mornings.
.kissing friends and dances with strangers and love affairs with art.
.passion under fingernails and music in pockets and just one reason to keep going.
.pebbles at windows and smoking at sunrise and goodbyes with closed eyes.

there are things we have to give up. cigarettes and alcohol and sugar and old friends. we always thought it'd be hardest to give up the bad habits. but no, it's you.
goodbye, old friends.

teach me

teach me how to kill and how to hate teach me how to destroy it all show me how to make love and how to die show me the sea on your doorstep tell me about candles and sand and castles and God tell me everything i don't want to hear

ink-stained sheets and melted snow

.i.

There's an old receipt in my pocket, from that road trip last summer. Sometimes I pretend it's a picture of you… I like to think I can carry you around with me. (You can live in my pocket if you want.)

.ii.

Sometimes I try to speak, but the words dissolve in my throat. I think the sea witch stole my voice. I bet she keeps it in a shell around her neck. I don't know what I traded for it, but I really hope it wasn't a prince.

.iii.

You want to sleep in the snow, but I can't let you. It's the kind that you'll fall asleep forever in; you'll never wake up. Stay with me, just for a little while. I can hear the snow melting outside, all the icicles have disappeared; it's almost over, stay with me, just for a little while longer, this winter is almost over.

.iv.

Ink-stained sheets and callused fingers. He died with a paint box by his side; I'll die with a pen in my hand. I'll put words in the Atlantic and wait for them on the other side; they'll be buried in the sand and I'll find them someday. Ink-stained sheets and callused fingers, it's only natural.

twothousandsix

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
place i still call home (love)

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people i thought i knew (just forget)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
goodbyes i wasn't prepared for (gone forever)

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months i never want back (keep smiling)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
nights in the lake (naked under stars)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
of us will always be there (wait for summer)

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missed calls (can't forget)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
circles we walked at midnight (never got dizzy)

.onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten
months i've known you (surprise me)

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secrets i haven't told (not meant for you)

it'stheendoftheyear.

aphrodite watches me sleep

Aphrodite watches me from her hiding place in the corner, between the painted parrot and stack of firewood (it'll never be burned). She watches me sleep on the brown-and-yellow flowered couch, and her shy smile matches mine.
I remember when the scratches on the Bill Cosby albums would lull me and my cousins to sleep; now it's the sound of Grandma's television and machines (she's still breathing).
The clock is stopped just before 12, this room is always on the brink of midnight. There's forgotten literature on the shelves and Grandma's articles are crawling out of the dust (I'll be a writer like her maybe someday.)
She calls for him, glasses of wine and seltzer, she's always calling for him. He's wearing the "Beth Ann shirt", the one he wore the first time he held me (it's mine, but I let him wear it). Tell me stories, I'll listen, tell me more.
There's a potpie tin on the side of the bathtub with ashes and crumpled cigarettes in it. (This is where I come from, did you know?)

Aphrodite smiles at me with white marble lips and steps into the cloth she's been holding for so long. I'm content; I am sleeping.