Month: June 2015

Fuck this Shit

I don’t take care of myself is the thought I usually have after I’ve had one too many pieces of pizza, am amidst the pains of a break-up, am sleeping with someone to make myself feel better about said break-up or buy another black pair of heels that I’ll only wear one to three times and most definitely can’t afford. I enter a drastic place of loneliness, self-doubt, borderline depressive thinking and my brain quite quickly jumps to the absolute worst part of the reality of where the situation is about to hit the fucking fan, only fueling more bad behavior.

I Call Bullshit

11.

Skimming the headlines, searching,

There is always searching,

For something to bring me current.

From the bottom of my bottle to the

Top of my head, I stand invisible and

Feel like the world has left me behind

To go about its business unaware

That I am standing here, screaming:

“Fucking leave it be already.”

The pounding of that sledgehammer

Seems silent compared to the

Stance my head has taken. Thoughts

Seem to be stolen by the insatiable

Urge to stand alone, still.

Calm has seemed a distant future

And more loss a probable outcome

Until additional inaudible cries will

Be heard and then there

Is you: All shiny and bright like

A fucking pink and purple cloud

Of cotton candy and slowly

The death march I’ve been running to and fro

Teasing myself and it back and forth

And forth again looks me dead in the eye

And has me, just like that. It all falls

Aside and deliberately, my eyes

Widen as my hips loosen and I remember

To cry and dance and that there is a sunrise

That has my name on it, just waiting to be

Seen after a late night fuck fest only sealed

By your kiss.

(I can’t help to feel. I feel. God damnit, I

Feel like I can’t fall and then there,

I feel I’ve fallen for your kiss and it’s all sealed by your deal.)

Remembering the Way I used to Shake it While that Juke Box Played that Song

 

There’s this girl I watch

a couple times a week:

Stringy hair, thin frame,

carefree style, opinionated

in her silence and mousiness,

(mousiness in the sense of being subtle

and not in her looks), which I like.

She brings her lunch in little plastic baggies,

nibbling on her homemade

peanut butter and jelly

sandwich with the crust still on.

As if she’s trying to hide

something from everyone around her,

she checks out.

Munching on her sandwich

with intent, her thoughts seem

to overrule the feast of the

fruit in her mouth.

She finishes her lunch off with

a bruised banana, chewing slowly, not

losing her resolve to fulfill

her hunger. She wraps the peel

up quietly, tucking it in on

top of her purse, waiting to

dispose of it, not wanting to

draw attention to her awkward

walk across the room.

Her lack of shower, (maybe she

had a bird bath instead) which

I know is to save the water, is

a reminder of my own choices to

do the same: Save the planet. I

envision her standing in front of

her vanity mirror, scrubbing her

arm pits with a faded yellow

wash cloth, which was probably

her grandma’s while humming songs

to some anti-government band from

years before, making sure to avoid

changing her underwear.

All of this reminds me of a time in my own life where:

We drank a lot,
fucked a lot,

fought a lot.

We were opinionated,

Intelligent,

self-destructive.

Life seemed to pass us by,

exist only in it debauchery,

remind us of our nemesis.

We crawled into bottles

to hide our resentments,

our responsibilities,

our lackluster views of society.

We chastised our leaders who lied to us,

our drug dealers who stole from us,

the bums on the street who got their

booze for free.

We sang songs screaming for justice,

wrote poems begging for silence,

and passed out every night in our own puke.

I think of those times and don’t

miss them one bit.

But, I just wouldn’t trade them

for anything. Sometimes,

pain is the great motivator and

stinky armpits are the reminder

that I need to shake it up once

in a while, despite my age.

So, I thank you little girl, (not in

a bad way, but in the way that

I was truly a little girl pretending

to be all grown up, too). You reminded

me of “my roots, my rock, my reggae.”

Red Rum

So not feeling any of these feelings right now.

I walk through the front door and immediately feel
like I’ve tossed myself into a huge fucking pot of
boiling water, like that lobster you watch on television
die over and over again. Once with your eyes and
so many more times in your brain. Or at least I do.

So, I walk into this front door and I’m immediately
picked up by these cold metal tongs. My arms and
legs begin flailing around and I begin to sweat.
Where am I going? What is going on? Why am I here?
The fear begins to penetrate my thick shelled outside and
suddenly I’m tossed into boiling water and for a split subject
I freak the fuck out and make this weird screaming noise that

won’t ever be forgotten and then, I die. I’m dead. Or I might

as well be because this fucking boiling pot of water sucks way more than death.

Everything is in its right place. Thom Yorke, You Genius You.

I used to lay on the tattered tan brown carpet of my boyfriend’s room in 2000 and listen to that album Kid A by Radiohead. I listened to so much more in that room, on his little boombox with him, but it was during this album that we made out and he asked me to be his girlfriend. The sun blazed through the blinds and made vertical lines for me to trace while I dove deeper into his hypnotic voice that in of itself was inspiring. But, to then add those precious words of everything being in their right place and I was sold on all of it. And, I was young. Not so much dumb. But, searching. And, I was all in.