Halcyon

My soul is tired.

A Conversation

“Are you registered to vote?” Dave asked in what he, behind closed doors, called his “educational voice.” In actuality it was just an inflection he used when purporting to “offer advice” to those he felt were beneath him. (So you’re aware, he also used it to order his weekly number 5 with extra tomato from Tacos Locos.)

“No,” Angela replied, taking a bite of her smart, lunch-sized salad. She glanced at Carlie who had also answered with a resolute “no” when Dave had asked her the same question hours earlier.

“Listen ladies, you have the right to vote now.” Dave walked toward the door, making his exit. “Take advantage of it. Despite your mammary glands and monthly mood swings, your votes could do some good this election. And you don’t have to know much about politics or Democracy to participate, so you really have nothing to worry about,” he intoned as he left.

“Thanks,” Carlie said with an eye-roll. After Dave was gone Carlie asked Angela, “Did that ass-hat just imply we know nothing about democracy based on the fact that we have breasts?”

Angela whispered, “I know enough to assure you that Democracy does not fucking work because it allows people like Dave to participate in important decisions.”

heartworm

n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.

(via dancingwiththewolvess)

Because He Messaged Her On Facebook

Dear H.M.,

It feels as though I’ve written this post, letter, poem, prose-piece to you a thousand times over. That I’ve been erasing and re-writing, and scratching lines out to replace them with better or worse ones only to scratch those out with raw, chapped fingers too.

And, in actuality, I’m exaggerating. It’s only been about 3 or 4 times—3 or 4 times too many. If I were honest, I’d admit that the day I no longer need to write you prosaic never-sent letters will be the day I lose the girl I’ve been for the past three years. I don’t much like her but she’s all I know right now.

The driving force behind the thought is that I’ve been trying to fit words in for you, where there are none, or where the words and their meanings are so small that there is no peg tiny enough to fill its hole.

“If you care about someone, do something about it. Life is way too short to deal with so much bullshit all of the time.”

That phrase has been said to me many, many times. And while it may be true for some, it isn’t for us. Or maybe it is and the timing is just shitty. Because I’m writing this letter and I just want it to be understood that I do care about you and I probably always will. Even when you’re avoiding me, and messaging her, and dating this one, and promising to see that one and the other.

I don’t expect you to be mine and I don’t expect this to change things between us. But I couldn’t read that phrase again or hear it once more over and just let it whisper over my skin and get underneath my nailbeds and make a home for itself someplace deep in my soul, living off me like a parasite intent on whatever the antonym of symbiosis is.

It’s true. Life is short. And there has been entirely too much bullshit in it. But with you… well that’s wishful thinking, isn’t it. “With you…” Perish the thought.

I am drunk; Therefore this gets posted:

I always want to post this somewhere you’ll see it and wonder if it was written about you. But you’ll never know, because you’ll never ask, and I will never offer the information up to you.

I am sick. I am twisted. I get off on your wondering about this writing and how I feel and if I feel and why.

I hate perfection.

Candor

I didn’t know what it meant to be attracted to the right person, rather than the right sex. To appreciate the curve of her slender neck and the corresponding slope of her pale breasts. Didn’t know what it would mean to run my fingers up through the smooth space between each supple peak, to fist her hair in my trembling, unsure hand and bring her close enough to whisper her name.

Her hair is locked and kinky like my sex drive and I didn’t understand this want I had, to find the key to the bonded passage way of her cupid’s-bow pink mouth, and for her to use it to feed me sweet arsenic and saccharine lies, like bitter promises disguised as the latter. Her collar bones are what I’ve only been bold enough to drunkenly call beautiful. And they’re jutting like her attitude, and I’ve only just realized they’ve been calling my name and drawing my lips to them. Everything about her is sharp and contrasting, soft and inviting. And I wonder what it’s like to love a girl whose lips and breasts match the exact coloring of the knots at the top of her shoulders. Whose eyes dovetail the same hue as the dark circles beneath her eyes.

As I wonder what that’s like, I’ll promise her this: blossom under my gaze and I promise to plant kisses like seeds upon your body.

Give me 2 seconds… I’m going to post this thing (piece of writing) that’s been floating around my brain (and my drafts folder) for a long time. Also, said text post will more-or-less render me both vexatious and vulnerable. BUT I’M FEELING BOLD, SO HAVE AT ME!

Spontaneity

My heart and my head are full of spur-of-the-moment, precipitated, radical decisions today. Bathroom sex with a gorgeous stranger, meaningless tattoos, long-distance drives to nowhere, confessions to the Boy-Who-Got-Away about a recurring dream starring him.

I think I’ll stay indoors and write instead.